Vows of discretion
by conchepcion
Summary: Molly is engaged to Michael. Everything seems fine. Unfortunately according to the papers she's married to a Mr Sherlock Holmes. The same Sherlock who refuses to sign the divorce papers and wants her to prove why Michael is worthy the part. Nominated for Best Romance and Humor SAMFAS 2013.
1. Chapter 1

"I do."

"You _do_? Oh, right, my turn, I guess."

"Yes, Molly."

"Oh, you've already – sorry – I do."

"You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, men must not divide. Amen."

"Aren't we supposed to kiss?"

"This is a traditional wedding Molly – not a show. Let's go, or we might not catch him."

* * *

_6 years later. _

There were various things maintained throughout ones life, ticking a box was one of them, and "single" was the usual place her pen itched towards. However it happened that this was about to change; the ring on her finger being the proof of that, as Michael finally asked her. It had been an unreal event - Michael had been all nerves; spilling the champagne glass on the table, causing the plates to almost collide with the floor, before he finally managed rather red-faced to ask her to marry him.

Her yes had been one of month's preparations. Was it silly of her to already from the start of their relationship manage to visualise them together? That's what everyone told her, that if one could visualize themselves talking with their loved one, or being with them in a certain setting it would happen. Unlike other people who just became all fuzzy and the scenarios were absolutely not PG-13. There was a massive difference between like and love – and lust. There was definitively a wide array of differences between all of those feelings, and she was wiser being aware of those. It was of course that point in her life when she was about to settle things, since Michael had been rather adamant that they resolve things beforehand. That was just normal behaviour, it was better to be safe – this didn't mean that they didn't trust each other, but they were adults. Adults were prepared for the worst-case scenarios, even if they most likely wouldn't ever happen.

Karen, a blonde barrister had sat down with her papers, "Yes – yes –we'll just have a look see here. You've been living alone for about, how long exactly?"

"12 years, I think now," said Molly.

"No roommates or any of the sort?" asked Karen with a curious expression, the papers lifted a bit more to her face, as she scrutinized them a bit more.

"Not at all."

"Right, but you and Michael will be living together?"

"Yes, we're getting married after all. I suppose that's what they expect of you," said Molly with a laugh.

"Alright, and I assume you're going to work that out with your – soon to be ex-husband, then?" said Karen, at which Molly stopped laughing.

"Sorry?"

"Yes, your ex – or – _oh_ – sorry - _I understand_," said Karen who proceeded to give a bit of a overly long wink.

Molly sat there flummoxed, her entire body frozen, as she slowly said, "But I'm not married. I've never been married – you're looking at the right papers, then? I'm Molly Hooper."

Karen blinked stupidly for some few seconds, "I am, yes. All the details are here, but you're married – to a – Sherlock Hol– oh, isn't it that sexy detective chap, then?"

* * *

There had certainly been tears, not as much hers as her mother who'd suddenly lost it entirely on the phone, "You're ALREADY married – when – what – how?"

"I've – it's – it was a while back – it wasn't really a marriage, I thought, and he's certainly not been a husband – to me."

"WHO IS IT?" her mother had demanded.

"Err – you know – I'm just going to make him sign the papers. It's just a mistake, mum – it'll be fine-,"

"Molly Jane Hooper or whatever your last name actually is-," said her mother.

"Oh – mum – can't – oh – hear," and so she hung up on her mother, and with a sigh of relief put her camera phone on silent mode.

It had been a case; this was before John Watson; before 221b Baker Street, and a distant memory of the time where she'd been a bit more helpful outside of Bart's. Strictly un-romantic in every way, even if she wanted it to be more, and he certainly assured her multiple times that it wasn't more than usual business. Of course, suddenly her help was needed in a more elegant prospect – the dress had been lovely, despite it being a bit too big on the chest area, but it was the closest to her then-fantasy of marrying the man. He'd informed her that she was the only woman for the job. She suspected that she might have been the only woman he knew back then, but she'd agreed to it - a bit more hesitantly, as it just seemed a bit odd to fake an actual wedding. However it seemed, that some parts of it might have actually been real – the _whole_ of it that was. The fact that she had in fact gotten married to Sherlock Holmes – and he'd neglected to inform me of the actual fact was alarming? It was even worse knowing how long she'd gone without knowing. Did he even know? Maybe he hadn't known, maybe the ceremony had been faked, but somehow the papers existed anyway.

She was definitively not telling Michael. How would he cope with her suddenly informing him that she was just going to divorce her ex-husband? One she didn't know she was married to – the same man who'd been intolerably rude to him when he'd shown up to pick her up from a late night at Bart's. Not that Sherlock wasn't anything but rude to any of her other boyfriend's.

Well, now she had already tucked the papers in her bag, and was ready for them to be signed without a moment's hesitation.

It was perhaps a bit odd to be striding this late to Baker Street, but she had to work late – and he hadn't made a surprise visit.

Molly rang the bell several times; they let her in without a word, and she stormed up the steps in a hurry. Her mouth was half-open about to ask the dreaded question, "DON'T," Sherlock practically shouted from the chair he sat on.

She snapped her mouth shut eyed him curiously, and observed as John and he were apparently trying to play chess (or John was trying, and Sherlock succeeding), "I am trying to give him a chance – you interrupting it with your questions might ruin the game for him," said Sherlock a bit more pleasantly, than her actual welcome.

"Shut up," murmured John narrowing his eyes on the pawns, touching his chin idly, as his other hand hesitated over his knight.

Sherlock tutted over John's attempt of a move, while she just stood uneasily looking on in the doorway.

John turned round and spotted her, "Oh, I thought you were Mrs Hudson – what's wrong?" he said spotting her agitated face.

Molly stepped over the threshold, "I just – err – you know – you can probably finish – the game first."

"It's no problem, really," said John attempting to stand up from his chair.

"Finish the game John," said Sherlock with a smirk.

"Molly's here," said John.

"It's because you know what will happen, don't you?" said Sherlock with a wide confident smile, "I'll win – you'll lose."

"It might be important," said John ignoring his friend's telling of the truth – he'd lost most of his white pawns to Sherlock, as she could easily spot.

"I doubt it," he said to John, before looking at her – his eyes lingering on the hand resting on her handbag, "If - you're here to make me return the hand, I still require it for further testing."

Molly frowned, "I'm not here because of the hand."

"Oh," said Sherlock with a tilt of his head, eyeing her clothing, "You've been at Bart's, then – a long day – by the look of it."

"Yes, it's been a very long day, and I just need your signature," said Molly trying to be as calm and pleasant as she could muster. She walked slowly towards the men, her hand soon rummaging through her things, before she brought forward a large thick brown envelope.

Sherlock stared at it, "Legal documents – why do you need me to sign legal documents?" he said standing up from his seat.

"Just take it," she said handing it to him, as John sat looking at the event in general surprise.

He took it and wordlessly slipped the papers out of the envelope, his blue eyes searching the papers, and then he slipped them back inside the envelope and handed them back to her.

John looked at Sherlock and then Molly, "Is there anything any of you would like to tell me?"

"No," said Sherlock who'd seated himself down again, "Let's settle this game first John, and we'll discuss those matters later."

"I'm sorry?" said Molly, "You're just going to leave it like that? I'd like your signature, if you please."

Sherlock looked up from where he sat, looking now a bit serious, but mostly amused – for John had made his move – "No – _oh _– and checkmate John."


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you actually need a wife?"

The voice sounded distant, like background noise of the telly, which unfortunately with a quick glimpse was turned off. He snapped his head back towards Molly who had uttered it. Molly Hooper who looked if not a bit overwhelmed, also very red-faced, with her hands clenched at her sides, before she gave to mouth an "oh", as she looked at Sherlock then him. "No - what – oh – wife – I'm not- _no_," she half-shouted; before starting to giggle furiously, "We're not married! Of course not!"

He was severely confused.

This was what happened when Sherlock kept him awake to five in the morning, due to his stupid violin playing, which Sherlock had been doing for the majority of the night. It wasn't until he'd suggested chess that evening, that Sherlock let the violin rest. Of course being beaten by the man wasn't pleasant, but it was easier for him to accept than Cluedo (which had been an amusing suggestion at the time).

"Sorry? What?" John said, when Molly had just turned quiet, shifting her stance, as Sherlock just looked at her with a particular smug smile from where he sat.

She looked at John with a furrow in her brows, clearly thinking something through, before attempting to address his friend more, "I'm engaged – Sherlock – I got asked – last night, as it were."

John was about to congratulate her, except he wasn't sure he should, as she didn't exactly look spectacularly happy about the news. Neither did Sherlock either, who seemed angry for a second, as he took to stand up from his chair, stepping closer to the female, who took a tentative step back.

Sherlock looked down at her, blue eyes shifting slightly, as if taking her in, before he with a raise of his brow said, "That would be particularly difficult under the circumstances, would it not, _Mrs Holmes_?"

John had gone through a great deal with his friend, from being lied to, left in the dark, drugged, had his hair coloured red, having dates interrupted and other situations he'd rather nor recall. One would suppose that this would just be another day in the office, per say, and he was absolutely shocked, but his initial reaction was not absolutely gobsmacked horror.

He started to laugh.

They both stared at him, being absolutely surprised over his reaction, which was the most hysterical of laughs, that was immediately cut short, "You're not joking?" he said after a minute.

It was evident from Molly's red cheeks that it was indeed true, but he could see her mind working on what to say next.

"Of course-," Molly had started taking to laugh herself.

Sherlock however interrupted her with, "No, indeed not John. Molly and I are bound by matrimony. One would suppose she'd respect that bond by not getting married to another without consulting me," but there was a minor tug of his mouth, suggesting that he was very entertained by it all.

Molly spluttered, before taking a slow step forward to the man, "We're not – that wasn't – we were never married," she said waving the envelope in negative, but she seemed to give up the idea of trying to fool John of the fact.

"I beg to differ," said Sherlock who was clearly enjoying her being nervous.

"You said it wasn't real?" she almost whined in reply.

"It certainly wasn't intended to be - but mishaps happen," said Sherlock with a tilt of the head, as if this was an every-day inconvenience to most people.

John didn't know how to entirely grasp the situation, and didn't even know if he wished to understand it.

"Mishaps?" said John with a baffled expression, "That's a bit more than an accident – nobody just gets bloody married-," he continued, hoping to get to ask why it had happened too.

"Exactly," said Molly with wide-eyes, "And I'd very much like to take that back, so if you could please just sign the papers – if you please?"

She attempted to push the envelope towards him, but Sherlock just ignored it.

"You made a vow, Molly. Not one to be taken back lightly, especially after six years of _happy_ matrimony," said Sherlock with a mock serious expression.

Molly felt sick, and felt a deep plunge in her belly of dread, which made her wonder if any of this, was in fact happening, since it resembled a ghastly nightmare. _Happy matrimony?_ She had been married to him for six years. It would take her months before that would ever sink in.

"We're not married, Sherlock!" she said once more trying to remain as calm as she could, trying to mentally map out that she was just at work, and he was as usual being extra difficult to handle.

"Well, then," said Sherlock now with a wide smile, "I don't see the point of signing your supposed divorce papers."

Her own attempt of a smile vanished, her cheeks paled, and she felt like sinking on the furniture in half-faint, "I've – _no_ – you're – Sherlock – we've not been – properly – we haven't lived together," she said, hoping that he'd realise how mad the idea of them having been married so long was, and continuing it would certainly not help. Except composing actual sentences seemed a bit more taxing on her already shaken nerves.

"I couldn't exactly throw John out on the streets, could I?" said Sherlock who eyed his friend who finally managed to shut his mouth, "You didn't seem very keen on living with me either."

She half-recalled the one moment he'd asked her if she needed a place to stay, and she informed him that she was living on her own, with no issues. And suddenly he had a roommate. If that was a suggestion for them to live together, she'd never gotten the hint of that from what he'd once said. She almost trembled with anger, "It's already been six years. What exactly do you suggest me to do then? I'm just supposed to carry on being married to you?" she said rather heatedly.

Sherlock seemed to give it a bit of thought, before he gave an answer this time, "Yes."

John felt like sitting down.

"This is not marriage – marriage is between two people who love each other – we barely even meet, or talk or do anything that is at all constituting something marital," she said a bit more hysterical now.

Sherlock gave to frown at this, "Did you not once complain over the fear of ending up unmarried, before you'd reached your forties? Wouldn't this remove all those fears and doubts?" he asked.

She gasped ever so slightly, "Sorry? Are you using that against me?" Not once did she ever assumed the man listened to her mutterings during the late hours at Bart's. It was every woman's general fear after some time, to be alone, and of course she'd thought so too. She had been in love with him, of all people.

"It is a completely legitimate thing to fear Molly, as many women do when they have turned-," he paused for a second giving her a once-over, "A certain age."

Her eyes narrowed at his suggestion, she wasn't very old – in fact he was older than her, and to be fair it was much more disturbing that he had a roommate at his age.

"I'll make some tea, shall I?" interrupted John causing them to look at him once more. He sprang to the kitchen happy for his escape, but he wished that he were somewhere else entirely. It didn't exactly help that he was still there, in the flat a few metres away, forced to listen to every syllable uttered, especially considering that it felt now rather rude to prod for questions. Molly didn't look especially keen to have a long-winded sit-down on the subject.

"Sit down," said Sherlock rather commanding, and his hand stretched towards John's chair.

She wanted to argue with him on this, wanted to kick him if remotely possible for ruining what little happiness she had hoped to gain, and what she had assumed wasn't far from her reach. She sat down anyway, keeping her eyes level with his, waiting for whatever stupid statement he was going to say that would make her get her stupid attorney to find a loop-hole in their stupid union. She was not going to spend any minute longer married to this man.

"I need proof," he said smoothly with his head tilted, dark curls falling to the side, as his hands were steepled together.

She blinked at him for a few seconds, "Sorry? Proof? What kind of proof?"

"Is he good enough?" he said after a minute of silence.

"Who?" she asked forgetting herself for a second, and feeling the undeniable flush reach her cheeks when she realised her mistake, "Oh – of course – yes – Michael – yes – of course he is."

"And you want to marry him?"

"Yes, of course I want to. That's why I'm here, to get a divorce, from a marriage I haven't known about, but you obviously had for six full years – so how come you haven't divorced me?" she said with her hands fidgeting in her lap.

She didn't know what his reply would be, and to tell the truth she was dreading having to listen to it. It didn't help that John had stilled with his administrations, though he kept trying to keep the volume up by slamming the cups a bit harder of the tray he was setting up.

"I found it beneficial," said Sherlock.

"What?"

What did that remotely mean? Sherlock who never liked women, or well, she didn't exactly know, but he'd certainly never liked her. And he found that it benefitted him to be married to her? She suspected that it was to do with one of his cases, or maybe it just helped having a spare wife on occasion.

Sherlock just gave to smile at her bewilderment, as she frowned in return over his regular smugness, "OK, so, are we done? Are you going to sign the papers now?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"What?"

"Molly, perhaps that might seem a bit difficult for you to comprehend, but I would like to meet the man that is going to artlessly replace me."

"No – absolutely not," she said without hesitation.

At this he smirked, leaning back in the chair, "Why not?"

"Because, Michael is – he's good Sherlock, and I am certainly good enough to know whose good or not."

Sherlock tutted, "I wouldn't say that, Molly. Considering your general history I would take everything Michael says to you with a pinch of salt, until I have had a discussion with him about our current situation."

"Oh, no," said Molly standing up horrified, "You're not telling him about this – he's not to know about anything – and who says I am at all agreeing to this?"

"Well, then I regret to inform you that I will not sign the papers."

"Fine," she said with a strained smile, "I'll find a way out of this, no problem, and I won't even need to have you sign anything."

"Be my guest," he said.

Molly glared at him feeling compelled to topple one of his belongings on the floor, but finding not much resolve to do so – before storming out, or well rather un-elegantly half-falling out of the door, as she'd made a bit of a misstep on the threshold. She could only imagine his amused face as she left – the bastard.

John exited the kitchen, as he said, "What the hell is going on, Sherlock?"

* * *

"He signed them, so no worries – just a big misunderstanding, as I said – so we can all calm down," she said to her mother on the phone.

"Yes, I can only imagine your father's horror if he knew," said her mum with a bit of laugh, certainly calmed down from her previous hysterics.

"I know," she said, as she could only imagine her dad being absolutely miserable not having gotten the chance to give her away, "But it's OK mum - it's fine."

The envelope was however still tucked away in her handbag taunting her at work, with its still unsigned pages. She never usually lied, but considering what she was currently going through; lying was a little pebble in an already messy pond.

The fact that her lawyer after several phone calls told her that there was no manner of way to cancel out the marriage without Sherlock's consent was taxing. No actual loophole that was legal or right, except getting his signature. She contemplated scheming; conjuring a devilish plot where she'd fool Sherlock into believing he was signing something else, but she knew that would never work.

There were other fantastical options, but most of them involved her injuring him. She wasn't regularly the one who wished to inflict another person pain, but she felt a bit on the edge considering. He had known all that ruddy time, all those years, and she'd been married to him. If it had at least been a mistake; a six year long mistake, then she'd have shook hands with him – no problem. Now, however, here he was telling her to continue being married to him. Oh, yes – this was probably a luxury to him for some odd reason. He was married, without love, without commitment, without attachment, without any of those _inconveniences,_ as she was absolutely sure he wasn't keen on the establishment. He had related enough to her when she'd gotten into the mess in the first place.

There she was at work, her mind entirely elsewhere, as she had to lie to her mum and to Michael and to everyone. Michael had luckily not caught on her anxiety on the phone at all. He still seemed calm by the fact that she'd already said yes. It was so very typical that Sherlock ruined it for her, so absolutely typical, but she hoped that he would at the end change his mind.

Her gloved hands were deep in intestines, the moment he voiced, "Molly," in her ear. She jumped on the spot, taking to squeeze the heart she was holding in her hand harder than intended, "Sherlock!" she yelped.

He just gave to smile at her, donning his usual coat, with the collar propped up, as his blue eyes scanned the body she was attending to, before they landed on her. She just frowned in return at him, wondering how he'd managed to sneak up on her without her noticing.

"I see you visited your lawyer today, then?" he said, and she knew that he was very aware of how it had gone down. She kept her mouth shut, despite feeling like throwing a swear word or a kidney his way.

"I have come here to propose you a deal," he continued in her silence.

She stopped up, looking properly up at him waiting – her heart beating rather fretfully, "You have?" she said startled.

"Yes," he said pleasantly, "We need not tell_ Michael _about our current situation, but I would like to meet him nonetheless – I find it odd that I have yet to meet your future spouse."

She felt her heart drop, for there were several reasons to that, listed on several notepads, with several exclamation marks, "Will you sign, then?" she said rather carefully, trying to seem aloof there she stood.

"If I approve," he said.

"If you approve?" she said in disbelief.

"Yes, I have to have a thorough evaluation, Molly. We do not need any more mistakes like Jim, do we?" he said rather cheerily.

"What does that mean?"

"I would think that a criminal master mind would be a problem."

"No – not that – I mean – what do you mean with a _thorough evaluation_?"

"That it might take more than _one_ meeting."

"And how exactly am I going to explain that to him?"

"Oh, I am sure you can manage to find a creative solution to that problem – don't you think?" he said, "I'll be in the lab, do bring me a cup of coffee when you are done – black-,"

"And two sugars, I know," she said disgruntled, slipping her hands out from the corpse, as Sherlock went off clearly satisfied.

This was not going to go well.

* * *

**A/N:** WOW, thank you for the response, the reviews, and the follows. I am absolutely surprised by the general enthusiasm over this plot. So that's very fun, thank you very much! I do hope i don't disappoint, and that you keep on reading. This story seems to write itself really.


	3. Chapter 3

She never did lie (not really). Well, she had lied just now (to several). If she had lied in the past, and she wouldn't even call it lying – it wasn't lying, per say. She just had a tendency to _neglect_ certain things. A small part of her would state that this was in fact something she had in common with Sherlock, except she was in a complete modus of hating the man despite brewing him a cup.

She did give him coffee.

Of course it was because she was a bit convinced she could possibly persuade him otherwise with the cuppa, but that proved to be a faulty theory. It was a fool's hope really, as she couldn't exactly get him to do what she wanted over the years. Even how many times she brewed for him, "Black with two sugars," which she said aloud, grimacing to herself, as she stirred the spoon in the cup.

It wasn't as if the moment she'd hand him the cup - that he'd suddenly feel compelled to sign the papers, which she anyway had in her handbag. She'd probably manage to spill coffee on the papers by accident, and seem even less serious than she actually were if she brought them along. Not that she didn't feel tempted to throw the coffee on his crisp clean purple shirt, but she compelled herself not to. Instead she'd acted happily about it, pretending that him meeting Michael wasn't a problem, as it in fact was.

She had not mentioned Sherlock to Michael, or well she had made it known that she knew_ of_ Sherlock Holmes; the figure that appeared quite often on the front of newspapers. But it seemed too difficult to bring the man up in fact, for when she tried she couldn't entirely feel that she could leave out the rest of the information. That would shed more light on certain aspects she hoped to forget. Though she could have told Michael that she worked with Sherlock, at least, and ignore the bit of assisting him with faking his death.

A fact that none really knew of. She wasn't even positively sure that John even knew, really. For when Sherlock appeared a year ago – no one assumed that the genius detective hadn't done everything alone.

The problem with this being known is that it would make another more difficult fact come to light; one that she'd been pretending never took place.

A fact her dear barrister Karen, who'd swished her red hair had suddenly pondered about; after Molly had frantically talked her into seeing her post-breakfast, after the phone calls had been too difficult to understand.

Molly started to wonder if the woman even wanted her to get a divorce. The majority of the time Karen seemed amused by the whole event, really, and so Molly had appeared, ever hoping that the upcoming evaluation would just be a thing of nightmares.

Except, it was evident that, that was just a dream.

"If you haven't lived with him for the last five years, of course, that's a way out of it," her lawyer had admitted to her, after Molly had almost started to tear up where she was sat, "But –_ well_ – that can prove to be a bit difficult."

It was as if Karen had taken the words out of her mouth. She was very right at that, which caught Molly by surprise, "Sorry – how – _how_ do you know about that?"

"Oh, thank God," said Karen with a cheery smile, "I suddenly thought this was one of those things, you didn't know about again. Good lord, what a laugh I'd have then."

Molly blinked furiously at this, "What are you talking about?"

Karen's dazzling smile fell, "Oh God. This Sherlock Holmes is a bit cheekier than one would suppose, really."

* * *

John couldn't manage to drink the cup of coffee, it had been in his hands for what seemed to be hours, staying there, getting colder by the second, and reminding him of what his friend had just done. What his friend had done _and_ neglected to mention too. His friend who said he wasn't into _distractions_ of any kind, considering them silly, and not even something he'd be willing to study. Of course, now, however John started to wonder if all the evidence wasn't pointing into a certain direction.

"John, do drink your cup of coffee or dispense of it in the sink. It is getting rather distracting, or better yet leave it. It might be interesting to study the moulding after some weeks," said Sherlock after what had been hours of silence on his part. The man was now occupying the kitchen, with one of his studies, John could only assume.

At least Sherlock wasn't playing the blasted violin anymore, which he'd picked up the minute Molly had left the flat, making it near impossible for John to sleep again – not that his mind wasn't already filled with thousands of questions, that would have kept him awake if unanswered.

Mostly, the question that re-appeared was "Why?"

John snorted, leaving his seat in the living room, throwing the brown liquid in the kitchen sink, before he then proceeded to stand rather awkwardly in the kitchen.

"What?" said Sherlock not looking up from his microscope.

"How long have you known?" said John finally deciding on what question was appropriate.

"For some time."

"For some time – being _what_ exactly?"

"Six years," his friend drawled, with a slow smirk appearing on his face.

John raised his brows, "Did you want to marry her?"

"Assumptions, John - a faulty one at that," said Sherlock, looking fleetingly up from his studies, "No, I did not," he said after John's look of disbelief, "Mycroft congratulated me on my nuptials, making me aware of the fact that our clergyman, had by fault registered our papers. Despite me having informed him of the situation at hand. He did seem a bit upset of the fact that we were lying in a church, but I did tell him that most people do these days."

John almost wondered if it had been a crude joke on the clergyman's part, really, "Right," he said, but didn't shift from the kitchen.

Sherlock took to look up properly now, eyeing his friend, "And I suppose your next line of questioning is _why_ I said no to the divorce?"

"You picked up on that, good," said John mock-seriously, before narrowing his eyes at his friend, "Sherlock, you can't just deny her a divorce – she's actually engaged to someone else – an actual engagement."

"She was married to me first - I am aware of some of my rights," said Sherlock with a smile, before bending down again to peer through the microscope.

"Funny – real funny, Sherlock, but I know for a fact that it's possible for Molly to get a divorce without your consent," said John smugly crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock quirked a brow, "Oh – yes - I know."

John started, "You know? Wait – Sherlock, what do you mean you know?" he said in surprise.

* * *

"Mrs Holmes," said Karen, which caused Molly to feel sick, "Sorry, Miss Hooper, I suppose – _well_ – I've been digging. Since I found the case fascinating to say the least, and I came across your lease."

The lease?

Suddenly she was handed a file, which she took staring at it bewildered. Yes, she'd signed the lease to her flat, ages ago, "Yes, well, you can find that I found it a bit curious, really, since you didn't know about this – I thought you were here looking to sort things out really, and well – your landlord gave me papers that didn't really fit, with the rest."

Molly opened the manila file, staring at the lease, which had her signature on it, _and_ Sherlock's.

She stared at it horrified, "What?"

Karen frowned, "I suppose you aren't aware of the fact that – your – err – _husband_ has been paying for half of your rent, since you began living in your current residency?"

After that Molly had gone to work feeling if nothing else, but overwhelmed. Why on earth had he been paying half of her rent? She remembered when she started at Bart's how she'd struggled to find a flat in London, camping out at a friends, while in search of something decent – near Bart's, and she had voiced these anxieties needlessly to Sherlock, so she thought.

When she'd now rung her landlord asking about the whole ordeal, he'd flatly denied it, until he guilty came forth with the whole story.

Apparently, _her husband_ – had informed him that she was searching for a flat, and his was the perfect one for her, but he didn't want her to know he was aiding her in this – since she couldn't afford it on her own (as they had an _arrangement_). Molly had just assumed she'd been very lucky, when Sherlock had suggested a flat to her, at her price-range, and she'd given it a look-see. A part of her wondered if this was why Sherlock, not long after needed a flat-share, and had asked her if she enjoyed living alone. Since it certainly started to look like that. This was even right before they'd gotten_ married_, and before John Watson was in the picture.

It didn't take her long to renegotiate a new lease, as she definitively could afford the flat now, without any help from her would-be husband.

And for one minute she'd believed Karen had been insinuating to her on and off _roommate_ for about three years. Suddenly she understood the importance of baring all. Not that she wasn't one for informing people of the goings on in her life, but she didn't feel that piece of history was worthy bringing up. Sherlock had caught her, on her lie, as she'd stood before him announcing, "We haven't lived together." She'd almost corrected herself, but didn't feel it was the time for that. There were other things to worry about, but apparently this lay in the root of the problem itself. The fact that he'd been in hiding, in her flat, for about three years was an important piece of the puzzle. Not that he had stayed there full on. Some days she'd wake without him there, and suddenly he'd be back cluttering up her flat with his things.

This was what she got for being nice.

It all explained so many things, from the way Sherlock felt the need to re-arrange some of her things, even bringing oddities into her flat, and even removing some of her furniture, which he'd found "Displeasing to the eye." She'd always assumed that it was in fact just Sherlock-type behaviour.

Well, partly it was, but she'd never assumed he'd in fact pay for her to stay. When she'd been worried about finding a flat, she'd also been anxious that she wouldn't manage to keep her spot at Bart's, if she didn't find a place she could call suitably _home_. This was without a doubt all about him – every single bit of it, as she was certain he'd wanted her around – for she was compliant to his every need (as he'd told her, not so much in those words, when he'd advised her of the flat).

She now wished she'd tossed the coffee on his shirtfront. It was either that, or his face. The only way out of the whole ordeal was with his bloody signature. Given to her only, if Michael was good enough, after his own rating.

She really hoped that wasn't his plan, all along, but even Sherlock couldn't be that devious? Could he? It was just so odd. Why on earth had he done it, really? The other question being, the most important of them all, and the one her mind kept reeling over – why on earth had he not divorced her when he'd found out? Even how many times, she tried to understand how he had benefitted – it made absolutely no sense. Then again, there probably was no sense to be made of.

* * *

There were certain things John had managed to understand about his friend. For one, that no matter how much Sherlock tried to conceal it – he did in fact have a heart. Several things done supported this theory, even if John sometimes doubted it, especially when it came to Molly. She had always seemed to irritate him, yet Sherlock always seemed to have the best of interest for her, though he didn't show it like any ordinary man. Other men gave flowers – he paid for half of her rent, and while others gave helpful advice on how to handle their current boyfriend – he was going to evaluate hers, before signing the divorce papers.

If the whole Irene Adler debacle had taught him anything; it was that nothing went down, as it should with Sherlock. So, when Sherlock had related to him the whole business, as to why he was so certain that Molly couldn't divorce him; John knew, he just knew he liked her, more than liked her, or so he hoped.

It was difficult to know with him, the man wasn't exactly easy to read, but the mountain of evidence was clear. For the night Sherlock had started to play the violin so incessantly, until the crack of dawn; without any stopping – was when Molly had suddenly gotten engaged (so Mrs Hudson had informed him; she was up-to date on Molly's love life apparently).

He would think it a coincidence, hadn't it been for the fact that Sherlock had brought the violin forth again after their argument, even if the man had seemed pleased at first, it was evident that not all was well. Sherlock did of course play, often, but not at such great lengths – and not pieces that sounded so intense either. They didn't have a case, so it couldn't be that, all of his little side-projects were doing fine, so this remained. This little significant thought, that maybe – just maybe – there was more to it all.

John was now standing right besides Sherlock, with his arms crossed, trying to seem irritated (granted he was, a little), "Are you telling me that – that _you_ paid - so she could stay at Bart's?" he said hoping that maybe his friend would catch on.

"She is a highly competent pathologist," Sherlock said.

Obviously not, "You mean she listens to you," said John rather carefully.

"Yes, John, or else I wouldn't see much reason to have her around," said Sherlock a bit gruffly, clearly annoyed by the questioning, which he rightfully deserved.

John sincerely doubted that was the only reason however.

"So you - found her a flat?" John asked.

"She had given certain specifics of her requirements. Not a very difficult task, but over her price range."

"So you – bribed her landlord?" John asked.

"Of course."

"OK – and you've been paying for her, ever since?"

"Obviously, John," said Sherlock with a sigh.

John pursed his lips, pausing thoughtfully, "OK," he said, before returning to the living room. He wondered, as he gently sat himself back in the chair if his friend would -

"What – is that it?" Sherlock suddenly said moving away from the microscope now.

John turned to look at him, "Sorry?" and tried very hard to conceal the smile on his face, "What's wrong, then? Can't I be OK, about this?"

"You've been asking me questions for about half an hour, I would expect a bit more of an overreaction than that."

"No, why should I react to that, really?" said John with a shrug, taking to pick a paper up, rifling through it – feeling Sherlock's eyes staring at the back of his head.

"Oh please – obviously you're trying to make this more than it is," spat Sherlock all of a sudden.

John dropped the paper, grinned a bit to himself, before putting on a serious expression, as he faced his friend again, "OK – then – answer this – simple question – considering, how come you didn't divorce her, then?"

At this Sherlock's expression was rather stony.

_Gotcha_, John thought, not hiding his smile anymore.

"Mycroft told mother," said Sherlock in such a way that resembled a puppy being kicked with a boot. It was rather unsettling.

The other Mrs Holmes obviously, that John had only heard tales of really; a woman that Sherlock was obviously fond of and who Mycroft Holmes was overly fond of, "He told your mum?" he said startled.

"Yes," said Sherlock, who without missing a beat settled down by his microscope, seeming on the edge now.

John stared, that really was below the belt, "I suppose she was happy?" he said with a furrow of his brows.

"Quite - yes," said Sherlock peering into his microscope now.

"But your mum knows that you and I share a flat, right?" John asked a bit baffled.

"Yes, she just assumes that Molly and I have an arrangement," said Sherlock who seemed to snort at the idea.

Later on John found himself compelled to check _the sources_, a thing he'd started to do after the whole Kitty Riley incident, and so he rang Mycroft. The man told him, "I never informed mummy about that, it wouldn't give her cause to cheer, I promise you."

John pitied Michael.

* * *

**A/N: **Being a law-o-biding citizen (to a certain extent), I'd like to thank rilakjenya for her comment about the law, which gave fuel to the fire, more or less. I had some knowledge of how things worked, but not enough. Funnily enough, this certainly worked to my advantage, and I hope you liked how this chapter turned out.

A great big thank you, to ALL OF YOU for your delightful comments! They do indeed cheer me on, an awful lot. Thank you for the follows and favourites. I do hope you continue reading, and enjoying.


	4. Chapter 4

The copy lay dusted where his brother Mycroft had put it, idly covered with the various papers, or documents throughout six years; clearly forgotten, but Sherlock would peer at it, knowing fully-well it was there – a single signature could be done with no aggravation. Yet his pen had not itched towards filling the blanks, a one-sided annulment, was fine, and could have been done without any protest, but oddly enough he never felt compelled to do it.

Every time he considered it, his mind would wander, suddenly remembering the fidgety creature in white before him, her soft hands particularly warm that one afternoon six years ago. It was never his intention, but it played out differently than he had expected. At first he was determined to etch his name upon the document, until he realised he was a married man – marriage had not altered him, it had not made him lessen his false compliments, or any of the sort. He was still himself, and of course he would sign, but he forgot.

He forgot so easily, such a simple process of elimination, but did not forget how she looked that day. Sherlock knew not why he hadn't overlooked that moment; of course the dress didn't suit, it was too big on the front, off on the waist, and wasn't what he would imagine she would choose. Molly, despite her somewhat occasionally disastrous taste, had some occasions where she would indeed surprise him, and she had. Being her lodger, had certainly made him look upon her taste differently, but not upon_ her_ differently – that he was sure of.

She did fidget less, getting more pronounced in her vexation over his changeable nature when occupying her space, and now she was just "Fine." That was a word she had been spewing out, for months, it was "Fine," or "Alright," but he saw her. He would see, from the corner of his eyes; her somewhat disheartened expression. She did not walk the halls with a bounce, did not laugh as much, and seemed less _Molly_. At first he assumed it was something emotional, for she had always been one with her heart on her sleeve, but he couldn't figure it out – even how hard he looked. She had read him, so many times, but he couldn't point out the fault in her now.

He just knew, that the spark was not in her eyes, and not even when she mentioned her betrothal. Her smile had never reached her eyes, so he felt it was his place to, at least show her, if she was unaware – that _this man _certainly was not the right man. Of course he had yet to meet him, but he was assured by just a mere glance that he wasn't.

He knew she had certain expectations of his future-evaluation of _Michael,_ some which he was delighted to entertain, especially in his mind, for he could easily see her bemused face in his head. He could do it in the ordinary fashion; his shoulders pulled back, ominously hovering over her fiancé, with his eyes narrowed, taking in every inch of the man, from the shoes to his eyebrows, before easily dismissing him with some well-calculated statement. However, considering the fact that Molly was so obstinately persevering through with the debauchery, despite his clearly spelt out negatives, there were several delicious options presented before him. He found one in particular would satisfy him at the present time, and would follow his well-thought plan without a hitch.

There was the aspect of John, who he at first had considered involving, until he realised that he would be faced with a lengthy-enough commentary from the man, without needing to inform him. Help, was not needed in this case, and he was surely doing it for the benefit of_ Mrs Holmes._

* * *

Michael. Michael. _Michael._

She'd properly neglected him, rather avoiding him was the word; not really _avoiding_ him. She did answer his texts, or calls, of course, but she said she was cowering under general pressures from the above. The above being her boss Mike Stamford, who barely pressured anyone really, and didn't know what pressure was. It was a lie, stringing along with the rest of them, which she tried to pretend were just stretching the truth – a bit.

Like she had once, not long ago, when she'd finally gotten the dreaded question about the_ actual_ burden in her life, who Michael had actually met, "There was this man in the lab, I thought you were there. He was quite rude, really – you don't know who he was? He got these massive curls and wore a purple shirt, if that tells you anything?" he'd said, when he'd picked her up once, and she'd just shrugged at him in wonder, "No, no idea."

Molly knew that if she told any of her friends (Mary especially), it would end up on a specific topic, the one that it had ended up when she first told them of the engagement. Everyone had made the face, the face she never knew of – a slight grimace, before a smile fixed on his or her lips, "Congratulations!" they'd say, until they added in a slight whisper, "But aren't you sort of rushing into it, don't you think?" She was thirty-four years old; clearly of sound mind enough to make her own decisions, without anyone doubting her. It was one of the few times she had been glad that her mother had shrieked, dropping her phone on the ground, breaking the screen, but caring not one shred, "Because my little Molly is getting married!" the woman practically bellowed on the other end, causing her to distance herself from her camera phone.

But she did need someone to talk to, someone who'd understand, since she couldn't exactly ring up her solicitor for a chat, or John for that matter. There was one person, who she knew would be disappointed, but she had to have some relief. She'd sat herself in her dad Charlie's little tidy kitchen, clutching her cup of tea, with a drawing of a dog on it, as he had quietly absorbed every word.

He'd not given his quick comments, as he usually would, but his grey brows had knitted themselves rather severely together.

She waited for the moment of judgement, guiltily eyeing him, as she rounded up her story – making every single detail available to her dad (avoiding the three year flat-mate, story, as that would probably not be entirely welcomed into the otherwise well-stocked tale). Instead her dad had rubbed his beard, the only audible sound in the kitchen, besides the dripping tap, as he put his chin on his hand, "Well, that's a lot to take in," he said, releasing a low whistle, waggling his brows.

"You're not – you're not mad?" she said relieved, though a bit disturbed. She had hoped for some kind of reaction over Sherlock's completely unnecessary behaviour, but her dad seemed to be mulling it over in his own strange way.

"He's going into all this trouble – to – what was that word again?" he said gesturing with his thick fingers.

"Evaluate-," she said with a grim expression, her eyes fixed on the kitchen table.

Her dad chuckled, she looked up in surprise, "Michael – yes – he's going to evaluate him, probably going to do a better job than I've done, I suppose," said her dad sipping his coffee, "I should obviously take some notes."

"Dad," she moaned, "You can't be siding with him on this?"

"I'm not, Molly – but I am a wee bit happy he's in fact dealing with it, since you've not always been very lucky in love, have you now?" said her dad, now a bit more seriously, a rather stern expression on his face.

She shook her head, "Michael is not Moriarty, dad. Definitively not Moriarty, and he wouldn't hurt anyone – he's a vegetarian even."

"Oh – really?" said her father with a grin, "Hitler was a vegetarian."

"Yes, and he also had a girlfriend. Does that mean that everyone with a girlfriend will commit genocide?"

"I was only joking," said her dad settling his cup down on the table, "I suppose Sherlock's already checked up on him, if his brother is as high and mighty, as you say," he said pursing his lips, until he caught her stare, "What?"

She gave to sigh, head soon on the table, her hair all over the place, "What do you expect me to do Molly? Put my foot down? I don't think, that would actually make the great Sherlock Holmes listen, especially."

"You are my dad – you're quite good at being scary," she said dejected into the table.

Her dad gave a barking laugh, "If you needed help with that, you should ask your mum, she's an expert in scaring people, then you'd get a proper interrogation done. I think she'd end wars, if she could - just to get you married," said her dad, putting his hand on hers, giving her a significant look.

"What?" she said looking up from the table.

"No, I just, it's odd – you're actually married, already."

"Not really, dad."

"I am bit cross for not being invited."

"Dad - I'm married to Sherlock, it's not a proper marriage," she said pouting.

"Well, then, right – you'll sort it out, and convince him Michael is worthy," he said.

"He is worthy - right, dad?" she asked him.

He gave an unusual look at that, before he said, "Of course he is Molly, he loves you, so of course he's worthy."

"Right," she said with a smile, before groaning, "But I've still got to have him meet Sherlock."

"You haven't told Michael, about him, then?"

She shook her head, "I didn't really know when I should."

"Why not?" he asked curiously.

"Because, it's just – you know," she said fidgeting with her cup.

"I understand, the man's a bit difficult, and from what you've told me through the years about him, I'm not really surprised – he sounds a bit like a git, really."

"People usually say worse," she said with a smile.

"I can imagine," said her dad chortling.

* * *

Michael had entered the room; all air had been punched out of her, while Sherlock glared at him, "No," he promptly said, before he vanished.

She groaned audibly.

That was one scenario in her head.

The other was, more ridiculous, and more likely to happen, "Dull –_ IT – _Molly, again? An obvious addict to computers, by the look of his pale skin, dark around his eyes, suggest him staying up too late, working. Could you have possibly chosen someone less easy to deduce? The man is a living specimen of dull, thinks excitement lays in staying up late on a Saturday night, and his receding hair line, certainly tells more than enough of his physical movement – which will be less – by the time he's in his mid-forties – possessing a gym membership card, does not equal exercise, even how much one pays the monthly fees," he'd berate, towering over them, until he left them scowling in his wake. Michael would tear up, probably, but that was just a scenario.

She could imagine Sherlock giving him one look, and saying, "Gay, not quite sure of it yet," Before he looked to her, "Obviously," wandering off, without any delay.

These scenes played fully out in her head, leaving her head aching, and her nerves bent.

What was in fact going on? She was in the lab, spending most of her time nibbling on the end of her pen, pretending to do her paperwork, while her eyes constantly flickered to where Sherlock sat, with the microscope. When she'd just started at Bart's, she'd lurk quite a deal around him, but now she was just waiting patiently, though longer than she'd expected.

Sherlock was twiddling with the microscope, eyes having been fixed at his studies of various samples for the last hour or so (samples she'd given to him, so he could stay longer), "He's late," he said, finally speaking, the silence had been taxing to say the last, especially, as the only sound available in the room was the clock – it certainly made her feel worse.

She blanched, realizing the pen was in her mouth, and that she was openly staring at him. Molly hurriedly looked away, vaguely interested in the structure of the ceiling, before she met his eyes again, "Who?" she said, knowing fully well she was fooling no one.

Sherlock turned his head towards her, eyes narrowed, "You texted him."

She faltered, _was there a way to be married to two men at the same time, maybe_, "He might be heading into the general direction of Bart's, yes," she said with a brief nod.

"And he's late," said Sherlock who seemed to be taking it as a personal insult, "You haven't mentioned it to him, then."

"No, not exactly," she said. Yes, there wasn't a great deal one could decipher from _pick me up at Bart's, _"Is that OK, then?"

Sherlock gave to smile, her heart dropped, as he returned to his studying, "I suppose, but he's still late."

"You're never on time," she pointed out.

"I am not supposed to be on time, Molly," he said, not looking up.

"Right – right - ," she said with a frown, hands on her hips, as she started to pace.

"Why are you nervous?" he said.

"I'm not nervous," she said stopping up.

"You've been nibbling your pen for the last hour, you only do that when you have a great deal to think of."

She grimaced, "Yes, well, I am allowed to be nervous."

"I would suspect that Michael would be,_ if_ he knew."

"He doesn't though," she quipped.

"I am well aware, Molly, or else we wouldn't be having this discussion," he said, at which she stared at him confused, about to ask what he meant, "He's late," he punctuated, "It must be difficult for him to be on time, I suggest trying to state the occasion the next time."

_The next time?_

She glared, "He usually is – on time – probably doing something important."

"I suspect flowers," said Sherlock.

"Flowers?" she said perplexed, turning her head around the room, for there were no flowers there.

"You haven't had appropriate contact with him lately. He's probably worried, and assumes that buying you flowers will salvage the problem."

"How do you-?"

"He answered your text too quickly, so he's been waiting by his phone."

"There's still no problem."

Sherlock gave her a look of sheer doubt, "He's not just going to buy me flowers, because he thinks I'm cross," she said confidently, and with that the doors to the lab burst open. She shut her mouth, as Michael appeared with a bunch of pink roses in his hand – she felt compelled to chuck them at Sherlock, but knew that Michael would probably not take that as a good sign.

"Hello," she said with a wide grin, trying to give the air of happy, since it took her all the effort, due to Sherlock's obvious smugness.

She'd suspected the man would brush them aside, but he was unusually attentive, righting himself up from his studies, and moving to their general direction.

Molly stared, while Michael said cheerily, "Hiya – I saw these - and thought of you," he said handing her the pink roses, which she took, giving him a peck, and a hug, while she looked at Sherlock warningly over Michael's shoulder.

"At nine o'clock in the evening," said Sherlock, "Not many flower shops, open nearby, that was very," his brows were connected, until he said, "– nice of you," he finished, her jaw dropped, "I'm Sherlock Holmes," he added with a smile on his face, his hand stretched out towards Michael now.

_What?_

Michael whose brown eyes had been fixated on Molly, turned round in surprise, quickly frowning, "We've met," he said, "Actually - but I didn't – _wait_ – the – Sherlock Holmes – the one who gets blogged about?"

"By John Watson, yes, people do tend to ignore him – the writer's unfortunate lot in life, I suppose," said Sherlock, whose hand was still outstretched.

Michael caught it, shaking it enthusiastically in wonder, "Must have been an off day for you then?" he said pleasantly.

"Yes, a difficult case. I have a tendency to be a bit challenging at times," said Sherlock jauntily in return, putting on his most charming smile.

Molly snorted, stopping herself from out-right laughing. _A bit challenging?_ she thought, wondering why on earth he was _playing nice._ He wasn't supposed to be nice, he was supposed to be imposing, neglecting Michael, and causing her aggravation. Sherlock was of course infuriating her with his niceties.

"Are you friends?" asked Michael releasing Sherlock's hand, as he took to look at Molly.

She gave a strained smile, "Yes - we are, actually – been – _friends_ - for years."

"You never said," said Michael, clearly baffled, "This was the man, remember, who was rude to me – thought I was delivering him-,"

"Oh, yes – a hand," said Sherlock with a nod.

"You've got quite the memory, Mr Holmes," said Michael.

"Call me Sherlock, Michael," said Sherlock with a laugh, his eyes looking the image of delighted, while Molly stood there trying to cope, "Molly's told me all about you."

"She has?" said Michael.

"Yes, you work in IT at a firm, quite handy with computers, I'd think."

"I suppose, so – _but_ – you're not on a case, right now, are you?" said Michael wide-eyed, "I wouldn't want us to be bothering you."

"No, Molly was just keeping me company while I worked on some samples she'd given me for my own amusement."

_Amusement_, a word she never thought Sherlock had in his vocabulary, especially when it came to her, or the lab, "She's rather nice, isn't she?" said Michael giving her a fond look, his arm soon on her shoulders.

Sherlock gave a brief smile, "Yes, I am very grateful for her assistance."

_Grateful; _another word.

This was how to get Sherlock to play nice, apparently – divorcing him was the answer. She felt relieved, he didn't seem at all irritated, from what she could understand, except she had the fleeting impression that was wishful thinking on her part, "Quite the couple – Molly told me all about the engagement. Congratulations," said Sherlock.

"Oh, yes, I am so happy she said yes, I was a bit afraid there for a moment, nerves nearly took me, really, but she was patient – with me fumbling about," said Michael with a laugh.

Sherlock joined in, while she stood there blinking stupidly. This was certainly an act he was pulling, "Where are you two heading off to, then?" he said slipping on his coat, popping up the collar, like he was always did.

"We're actually heading out for dinner," said Michael.

Molly thanked the saints that they were leaving, that the first ordeal, she supposed was over, for now – at least, "You can join us, if you want?" said Michael, and she gaped at him.

She felt her heart hammer distinctively in her chest – _dinner with Sherlock?_ She was not prepared, barely equipped at all, for whatever disaster that would create.

"I'd be delighted to," was Sherlock's reply, however much she with wide-eyes stared at him.

"But you never eat when you're on a case," said Molly rather hurriedly.

Michael was surprised, "Really?"

"Oh, well, I am not on a case, now, am I Molly?"

She grinded her teeth, her arms crossed, trying to give him the most intimidating look she could muster.

"Yes, well – you've probably got to tidy up, a bit, I'll wait by the reception – got to make some phone calls to work -," said Michael giving her a kiss on the cheek, before dashing off.

Molly felt rooted to the spot, waiting for Sherlock's judgement, but he looked at her in amusement, "He's an idiot," he said with a sigh, before adding, "Come along Molly," as he wrapped his scarf around his throat.

* * *

The journey started out interestingly enough, with Sherlock's helpful suggestion of where they should eat, some of his usual speech blurting out, causing Michael to look at Molly in amazement, "He's really good, isn't he?" he'd whispered to her, as the three of them were sat in the cab, Michael squashed between them, and Molly tempted to jump out of the cab.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, affably, with his impossibly good hearing – it was all a complete act, of course.

Michael, with his ginger hair and cheery disposition, did not please Sherlock whatsoever, despite giving the illusion of so. Who actually pleases Sherlock? _I might have to rephrase, that, _she thought.

"_He's an idiot,"_ was a sentence, which unfortunately repeated itself, with a condescending tone in her head. She kept her gaze out of the window, trying to focus on that, instead of Michael who was playing with her hand, and Sherlock seated besides him.

"How long have you known each other?" asked Michael, who wasn't a fan of silence.

"About seven years," said Sherlock.

Her youth, and working days spent fawning over the man, more or less, of course now she'd been married to him six of those years, so it wasn't a complete loss, she thought grimly.

"Weren't you dead – a while back – do you mind if I ask how you did it?" said Michael.

Molly said, "I don't think Sherlock wants to tell that story."

"I do have to agree, Michael, but that's only because a magician never reveals his secrets," Sherlock said with a smug smile – _or his assistants_, she thought.

They'd finally ended up at a Thai restaurant, Michael wasn't very keen on hot foods, but Sherlock convinced him that he'd be fine, as they did have some meals that were made for the _English tongue_. Michael had gone off to the loo, at some point, and she was left with Sherlock.

At first she was committed to ignoring the man, until she leaned over the table, whispering rather furiously, "What the hell are you doing?"

She wasn't going to play nice - signature or no signature. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, "This is an evaluation, Molly. I thought I'd made myself clear," he said.

"Yes, well – I'd like you to drop the act-,"

"And inform Michael of the whole situation?" he looked at her questioningly.

Molly opened and shut her mouth, "No – I just – can't you try to be yourself, except nice?"

"I would say, this is what I am doing."

She bit her lip, "I don't see it, as that, you know Michael doesn't like hot food – yet you persuaded him here-,"

"You didn't give much loud protests at that, to be entirely fair, you've barely spoken a word, since this started. I would suppose you'd be a bit more fond of your future husband."

She fumed, about to give an angry retort, but Michael settled down by the table, "What are you two talking about, then?" he said.

Molly leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, "Oh, just – the wedding, you know," said Molly slowly, thinking through her words.

"Yes, about that – when do you think we should have it – I'm keen on spring-," said Michael with a grin, touching Molly's hand and squeezing it.

Molly smiled, "I'd like to do it in December, really," she said with a small smile, her eyes soon going to Sherlock who was staring at her intently.

"A winter wedding would certainly be more interesting," said Sherlock, looking at her, "I know of several places that could happened."

"You do?" said Michael with a grin, as Sherlock soon took out his camera phone, before showing them a photo of a beautiful old building, "This would probably be the best."

"It looks –_ lovely_," said Molly, surprised over his choice, and how it suited her ideal, really, despite the large price-tag connected to it, "That's beautiful, Sherlock."

"There's a mausoleum there, a perfect place for the first dance, at least that's what they told me – but I do have to be knowledgeable about these things," said Sherlock who's mouth was quirking upwards, but not in the false mannerism he'd adapted most of the evening.

_They? _

"Oh, how come?" asked Michael, and she also wondered why he was so familiar with the subject, excepting their own obscure version of a wedding.

When she looked back at that moment, in the future, absolutely nothing could have prepared her for that sudden outburst; Sherlock took an intake of breath, before he said, "Well – I am the maid of honour, aren't I?"

* * *

**A/N:** THANK YOU for the wonderful reviews and the general want for this to continue. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, as much as I did writing it. I am very grateful for all the follows, and the genuine interest it has gotten.


	5. Chapter 5

She had certainly heard the words, and understood the phrasing, but she still stared at Sherlock with a mildly confused face. Of all the cruel plots he could have devised he was going to involve himself in her wedding plans, which she'd barely brushed upon herself.

She would rather have him cut down Michael entirely, exclaiming him an idiot, than looking at the pair of them with that self-satisfied expression. He seemed positively in all manners of being rejuvenated by his exclamation, as if this was a better job-title than consulting detective – that this was what he'd always longed to do.

"We're breaking tradition I suppose," said Sherlock with a slight frown, before adding, "I assume the appropriate title would be man of honour," at that he gave to smile, a small chuckle emitted.

_Man of honour? _

Molly hadn't misheard him at all, which was the worst bit of it. For a minute she thought her mind had just chewed all the words up, and swallowed them wrongly, but unfortunately her hearing was impeccable.

"I thought Mary was going to be your maid of honour," said Michal looking at her expectantly, but not at all in the sheer horror and dread her insides were feeling.

She barely felt her limbs, if they were still connected to her that was. Molly was certain she could have dissolved into the chair. Her cheeks were certainly hot, but it wasn't of being flustered.

She faintly said "No." Even then, she wasn't sure if she'd actually spoken, because all she felt like was crossing her arms over her chest pursing her lips. Molly didn't even have the willpower to make her body move at all.

Mary would certainly kill her.

"Originally yes, but because of Molly and mine's –_ falling_ – out – and recent rekindling of friendship – that we decided it would be for the best, if I were to wield the usually feminine title."

_We? _

She snorted, eyes flashing now, as she tried to remain calm, but she felt like fidgeting – possibly leaving the restaurant post-haste, calling Mary, and confessing to Michael – of course doing that, would most certainly end all, which she started to assume was Sherlock's plan.

His plan to ruin her day, which she to be entirely honest didn't quite understand. If the wedding wasn't going to happen, since she was certain that in his eyes Michael wasn't good enough, then why on earth was he assisting its existence?

In the end she was surprised when she found herself saying, "Yes, he is," rather numbly, for a second she was sure she caught Sherlock off guard too.

He seemed to be under the belief that she would falter, which she did, but, "Yes, he is," was her answer.

"Oh – right," said Michael who gave a bit of a laugh, "Right – man of honour," said Michael now a bit slowly, as he properly sized up Sherlock.

"It would be rather difficult for me to be yours, Michael – after all I've just met you," said Sherlock filling up the overwhelming silence, that she felt was herself. She was like a pause, her mouth barely moving at all, and her body had gone rigid to say the least.

"A winter wedding I suppose needs new traditions," said Michael with a smile bringing up his glass, while Sherlock brought his forward too.

Molly sat there, grudgingly bringing up hers with the fakest of smiles, "Cheers," they all said, as the food started to appear.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes had stayed on her, fixated on her face. Probably to see all of her reactions, which were certainly less than they could have been.

She'd only narrow her eyes occasionally in return, before he'd direct his attention to Michael who'd gesture wildly with his hands, as he went on how they'd both met _online_ and Molly's lack of trust towards him, "She thought I was some sort of mental case to begin with," he'd laughed.

She expected Sherlock to make a comment about that, to bring up _Jim from IT,_ but the corner of his mouth only edged upwards. No confessions on his part of her poor choice in men.

She found herself grateful, despite not knowing how to tackle his involvement, which she was sure was just a way of making her not go through with it. He was probably entertaining the idea that she'd stand up hysterical, begging him to stop – instead a small part of her brain went – _go ahead, try. Try to ruin it, like you ruin everything. _

Michael had noted her silence however, giving her an encouraging smile, "You're nervous then?" he'd whispered to her.

"About marrying you – never," she'd just replied, as he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

It was that tiny moment that had salvaged the evening for her, making it bearable to have a pair of eyes staring at her intently, like she was an exhibit.

Sherlock was doing this for his own amusement, stringing her along, but luckily the other pair of soft eyes looking at her fondly helped her brave the storm. She was after all doing this for Michael, since Sherlock had to turn around at some point. There was no actual way he was going to be her _man of honour._

"The engagement party will be this weekend at Baker Street," Sherlock said, stopping their moment from continuing, and almost causing her to gape at him.

His mouth had twitched, as she attempted to cover up her own surprise over his announcement.

"You're having it at yours?" said Michael.

"Yes, John will probably be delighted to be of assistance," said Sherlock with a smirk.

Michael gave a nod at this, it wasn't until later that she'd understood what that nod meant.

Sherlock had to leave after they'd finished eating; Michael had bore the meal surprisingly well. He even seemed disappointed that Sherlock was leaving, while Molly felt relieved. Sherlock picked up his camera phone from his pocket, announcing that he was leaving because of important business, "I hope it has to do with the wedding," said Michael with a grin.

She was sure it wasn't, because even he – could not stand upholding a charade for too long.

"Certainly Michael, I'd never forget your future nuptials," Sherlock said with what Molly recognised as one of his infamous fake smiles, before he'd thrown on his coat, and bid them farewell.

When Michael and her finally left the restaurant, they finally had a proper moment to themselves; walking instead of taking a taxi to her flat; her hand was stuffed in his jacket pocket, clutching his hand.

Michael had then said amidst their slow pace, "He's quite something, really."

"Yeah," she said.

"You were quiet tonight – nothing wrong?"

"I'm just a bit – overwhelmed, you know. It's happening so fast," she lied.

"Not too fast I hope," said Michael looking anxious.

"No – no – no – it's just, you know."

"I hope I do," he said with a grin.

It was then he looked at her sideways, and she raised a brow, "What is it?" she asked.

He gave a sigh, "Now, I'm just wondering. It isn't my place, I felt it was a bit out there to ask while we were eating really, but how long have Sherlock and John been together?"

She gaped at him, "Oh – oh -," she started, wondering how to finish the sentence, "Err – they've been living together for about – three years, I suppose."

"John must have handled it really badly that Sherlock died like that, or well – he didn't die – _die_," said Michael looking a bit puzzled.

"John _was _quite upset," said Molly, knowing she wasn't in fact lying, for she was actually telling the truth. The truth, with some minor alterations, but this was just Michael's assumptions of the actual truth – not an actual lie. She was a horrible human being, she thought angrily.

"I suppose they're good now, then?"

"Very," said Molly reminding herself about the fact that John's fist connected to Sherlock's face on the moment of his return.

"But he's really the best man for the job – he'll know what you want, before you've even figured it out," said Michael happily, causing her happy image of Sherlock knocked down to vanish.

* * *

_Mary._ She could only imagine how her friend would react, really, which was why she'd phoned her up for a coffee, which Mary had quickly appeared for.

Her blonde friend had stared at her hand for a moment, before going into the queue to make her order. Molly sat with her cup of coffee by the window grimacing, until Mary returned with hers.

"So-," said Mary, "What's the emergency met-up about, then?"

"Why do you think it's an emergency?"

"You never ring me up early in the morning to tell me we're going to have lunch together - we usually text a half-hour before."

"I wanted to be prepared, for once."

"It sounded more like you had something to tell me."

Molly frowned, "I do have something to tell you."

"What is it?" said Mary a bit more seriously, taking a swig of her coffee.

"You know how I said you were going to be my maid of honour, right?"

"You're not letting Josephine be that, are you? – you know she's unorganized-," said Mary rolling her eyes.

"No, it's not Josephine."

"Oh," said Mary put out, "It isn't?"

"It's – err -," she said, knowing that what she'd say next would certainly involve her having to admit the rest of the tale, "It's Sherlock, actually."

* * *

"You're going to be her _best man_?" It seemed that the idea was too difficult for John to grasp, _it was._

"Yes, the position usually claimed by the maid of honour," said Sherlock huddled in front of his laptop.

"A title that usually goes to women," said John standing in the middle of the living room with a cup of coffee, clearly needing one more cup, double the strength, considering what Sherlock had been retelling him the last twenty minutes.

Sherlock didn't give any answer, clearly to busy with whatever he was doing, "So you're helping her plan her wedding?" said John rather slowly.

"Yes, John," said Sherlock clearly irritated.

"The wedding you've been keen on stopping?"

Sherlock raised a brow, stopped his typing, as he turned around to face his friend, "I have no intentions of stopping this wedding, John. I am just assuring that Molly is making the right decision."

"Then you could have signed the papers, and let her decide for herself," said John with a knowing look.

Sherlock scowled at him for a second, until he returned to his furious typing, "So what are you doing?" John asked after a minute of silence.

"Planning the wedding, John," said Sherlock with amusement in his voice, "What else would I be doing?"

Both John's brows rose in mistrust, but soon he looked amused, "That's not something I thought I'd ever see – Sherlock Holmes – the wedding planner," said John sniggering now, clearly not managing to contain his glee.

"Neither did I, but it does give me enough opportunity to seek out Michael."

"And you didn't have enough from last night? You can usually size up a man from one look."

"No, we've barely grazed the surface of the man. Michael is more than one layer, John"

John blinked, "Right – I very much doubt that - but wouldn't you have to be his best man to do that?"

"He's already got one – and Molly's was easy to dispose of – she's barely spoken to him since they've gotten engaged – so I have replaced hers."

"The friend she brought over last Christmas?" asked John trying to seem disinterested.

Sherlock snorted, "Yes, the one you were attracted to, while you were already attached to another woman – yes – _her_ - John."

"I wasn't – well – I'm allowed to find someone attractive, Sherlock," said John.

Sherlock ignored him, "I might be seeing her often, considering she's one of the bridesmaids – so you will have your chance to get_ off_ with her – as you so delicately put it," he said.

"Sherlock!" snapped John, "I haven't said anything."

"But you were thinking it," he said with a raised brow, "She will most likely be here for the engagement party I am sure."

"The engagement party?" said John baffled.

"We are hosting it."

"We are? You could have at least mentioned it last night, so I'd gotten the chance to tidy up."

"It isn't before Friday, John," said Sherlock with a sigh.

John stared at his cuppa, trying to not smile, until he looked up, "Does this mean that you'll be signing the papers soon?"

"Not any time soon, no," said Sherlock.

"Yet – you're helping her plan the wedding?" asked John again, but this time with an unconcealed smile. Sherlock had now reserved a great deal of time with Molly, more than he had with Michael, considering his position.

"Planning being the keyword, John. Plans do have a tendency to fall through, even if Molly is behind them."

* * *

"Sherlock – Sherlock Holmes is going to be your maid of honour? I suspect he'll be showing up in a gown, then?" said Mary rather heatedly in clear disbelief, "Molly – if you don't want to hurt my feelings, you can tell me who's going to take my place – of course I'll be disappointed, but it's completely alright – we've been friends long enough."

Molly shook her head, "It's the absolute truth."

Mary seemed to be mulling it over, "OK – so – is he blackmailing you?"

"No," said Molly all too hurriedly.

Mary's brows knitted, "Then why on earth is he going to be your maid of honour? I'm sorry to say, but I find it bloody hard to believe."

"We're – friends, you know."

"Molly, previously you fancied the man, then hated him – to a mild acceptance of sorts, and now he's taking my part as your maid of bloody honour?"

"Yes."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on, he's just going to help out, with the wedding – it doesn't mean you can't be as involved – you know Sherlock he'll probably not – you know – be as involved."

"OK," said Mary nodding her head slowly, "OK – so you're a horrible liar."

"I'm not," said Molly rather indignant, until she caught herself.

"Gotcha!" said Mary smugly.

"Mary!"

Mary looked at her rather sternly, her abilities of snaring out information clear, from her having worked as a teacher for years – Mary could spot a liar, "Molly – what's going on?"

Molly stared at her friend, hesitating, but she knew she had to tell her – if there was one person besides her dad who had to know, despite what Mary would end up advising her – she had to, "I'm married."

Mary's face was that of complete frozen terror, her eyes flickered to Molly's ring, then to her face, until Mary put on a strained smile – mirroring her own from last night's dinner, "What? You're – you're already married – to Michael – oh – wait – but – oh – god – I'm so happy for you," said Mary, quickly recovering.

"You don't look it," said Molly worried.

Mary wavered, "Was that a test? You're - not - married, then?"

"Not to Michael," said Molly with gritted teeth.

Mary had needed about five minutes to stop laughing. She was clearly amused by the whole situation, despite Molly's clear frustration, "This isn't something to laugh at! This is serious, Sherlock won't sign the papers – until he's said Michael's in the clear-,"

Mary stopped laughing, pursing her lips together, clearly trying very hard to see the severity of the matter, "Right – your crush of how many years, in fact your husband - is going to evaluate your fiancé – Molly – you've got to see the funny side?"

"It's not funny – I'll never get to marry Michael if this continues – Sherlock will never sign the papers at this rate. He'll be busy-,"

"Planning the wedding," interrupted Mary seriously, which caused Molly to laugh despite it all.

"Oh, it's not funny, Mary," she said giggling.

"You know, we've been moaning for ages about turning into spinsters, and here you are – having been married for six years – I could have found myself a bloke in those six years, had I known."

"I didn't actually think I was married."

"But you probably wanted to, then," said Mary with a significant smile.

Molly moaned, "Yes - then – this is _now _– this is the point were if this continues I'm bound to have to tell Michael-,"

"Why don't you?" said Mary, "Why don't you just tell Michael – everything – I'm sure he'll understand."

"No, he won't. He'll be mad at me for keeping it up for so long."

"Yes, but it'll blow over, Molly," said Mary reassuringly.

"Yes, and I'll still be married to Sherlock," groaned Molly.

Mary looked thoughtful, stirring a spoon in her cup, before she said, "You know, you're probably right – it would maybe – actually be good for you, this."

"What?"

"I told you that you rushed into it."

"I didn't rush into it."

"You've known him for a year."

"So?"

"You take time choosing your socks in the morning, Molly. Michael's not going anywhere, consider the time Sherlock's giving you a good thing, and – it probably is. You can postpone the planning-," said Mary sincerely.

"The engagement party is on Friday," said Molly drily.

"Really?"

"Sherlock's - idea, actually."

"For someone keen that you don't get married, he's certainly helpful," said Mary trying hard not to grin, wondering idly why on earth Molly's barrister had neglected to mention _annulment_, and why she didn't feel particularly compelled to tell her either.

* * *

**A/N:** From now on I'll be updating this every Tuesday/Wednesday, depending on your time-zone really.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Thank you very much for the encouraging reviews and spit-takes - they certainly made my day!

Hopefully this was enjoyable as well - _conchepcion._


	6. Chapter 6

When someone first mentioned the invitation she was in the lab doing some blood tests, checking if it was in fact Mr Harold's diabetes that kicked in the last minute, but suddenly Mike Stamford fluttered in the lab smirking at her, "Good morning!" he said cheerily, arms crossed as he stood surveying her for a minute.

She blinked up at him, giving him a grin in return, "Oh – hello – Mike – morning yourself."

He just continued to grin, which made Molly wait expectantly for him to continue, "I suppose congratulations are in order, then?" he said with a brief nod.

"Congratulations?" she said properly bewildered.

If her engagement ring was on her finger it would have reminded her, but it was safely stored inside her locker so it wouldn't be drenched in death. Instead her mind instantly went to the other reason why Mike Stamford would find himself inclined to congratulate her, which almost made her half-dizzy.

Had Sherlock told everyone?

Of course he didn't want to actually be the maid of honour, of course he'd snap, of course he'd do - "Your engagement to Michael, I'll be glad to come Friday, I suppose you want to have the day off, then?"

"Oh – right – that's – right – it's this Friday," she said hands on her thighs, as she blinked hurriedly trying to recover.

Mike looked confused for a second, until he gave to laugh, "Don't pretend you don't know – you're probably very excited!" Excited was not exactly the word she was looking for, as she'd managed to forget it. Not because it was her engagement party, but because, "So, it's at Sherlock's flat, then? A bit weird, but interesting I suppose," said Mike.

She liked to think that bit had never been mentioned really, as it had been a hysterical suggestion at the best. The sheer idea that Sherlock would willingly open the doors to his home to a load of strangers – for a party celebrating her nuptials - for a wedding he was primarily trying to stop from happening was beyond mad.

She'd convinced herself it was some rubbish he'd thrown out to impress Michael, to convince him that he was serious, and that he deserved the honorary title he acquired from her, sweeping the rug underneath her feet. A fact that she knew would have to be known to all, especially the round-faced Mike who looked excited by the premise of being invited to see Sherlock's flat too, "Oh, yes – his flat is just larger than mine." It really wasn't, but it was a lie she could cope with. She was going to celebrate her engagement in his flat, her husbands flat – the lie was nothing compared to that fact.

"It really is? I almost thought it was a misprint," said Mike in slight disbelief, "Well, then I'll sort out the work schedule, so you'll have the day properly off. You need your sleep after all." With that Mike disappeared, but after his visit several more people came pouring in.

Everyone with the same question, "Why is at Sherlock Holmes' flat?" She too wondered.

221B Baker Street had become infamous, a mysterious place, which none had seen the inside of, but the press had a tendency to clamour outside of. Despite it all, everyone at Bart's were terribly eager, since they only ever saw him preoccupy the corridors, before disappearing into her lab or the morgue.

None of them knew him personally, some had met him, and of course thought of him, "As a nasty piece of work," which at this very point Molly felt inclined to agree with, except she felt that their reasoning was not as well-thought as hers.

She had all reason to be angry with the man, and believe it she was – for - everyone important in her life had received an invitation – all except_ her_. They said that the invitations were very pretty, and that, "I suppose it's your maid of honour who's done it, then? – V_ery_ smart, I've got to say," said Sheila from the reception.

No one had exactly brought any of theirs in, as they all supposed she'd seen them, and she found herself nodding with them at how lovely the invitation was.

This did nothing to diminish her ever-growing curiosity, really, as people continued to line up chatting away about it. For a blissful second she remained hopeful that her mum hadn't received one, except it was probably the fact that her camera phone was on silent-mode that made that belief at all exist.

That idea stopped existing the minute several enraged voice-mails appeared, "Why on earth is Sherlock Holmes hosting your engagement party? You could have called me – of course - I'd have it – I would have assumed you'd like having it at your childhood home, but instead you want to be cooped up in his most likely dingy little flat?" Though there was a great deal more cursing involved, which made her certainly wary of answering her father, but she did in the end, "Hello," she said more quietly than she wanted.

"Soooo," said her father chuckling, "He's hosting the party, then?"

"Yeah."

"Still on-going with the evaluation?"

"Yeah..."

"Right, is there more you wouldn't like to tell me?"

"He's my maid of honour, actually."

Molly bit her lip nervously, listening to her dad breathing deeply, before he said, "Well, then – have you told your mother yet?"

"No."

"That's all right, I'll tell her."

"You will?"

"At the party, where she can't wreck havoc, and will _have_ to smile." It was a phone-call that certainly eased her mind, but it didn't make her less curious.

"So dad, how smart is this invitation, actually?"

"Why are you asking? Haven't you got one?"

"Yes – of course – I have – ok - no, he didn't send me one."

"Oh, now that's funny – why wouldn't he do that?"

"I've got no idea, even Michael's got one. He texted me about it."

"I wouldn't read too much into it love," said her dad, and she supposed it was to reassure her. However why was she left in the dark after all? It was her wedding to be had, her engagement party, and it might be hosted by her hopefully soon-to-be-ex-husband, but she had some rights. It wasn't exactly surprising that she hounded Mary into coming into Bart's with it after work, which Mary did grudgingly, after Molly pleaded with her a couple of times.

The minute Mary walked in, Molly sprang towards her clapping her hands together, "Excited, are we?" her friend said smugly.

Molly calmed down at that, glaring slightly at her friend, "I'm just curious, it's after all – him – he's done it all on his own."

"You've been worried, then?"

"No," said Molly, until she hurriedly added, "Of course I have – just – give it to me, Mary."

Mary smirked, bringing forth from her handbag a deep purple envelope, which she handed to her. The texture of the envelope itself felt expensive, the hand-written text on the front was certainly not done by Sherlock, as his own was absolutely atrocious.

"You are sure this is it?" she said holding it in her hands, turning it over, until she slid out the white hard thick parchment, that bore similar hand-writing, besides engraved text, all in deep purple.

Hers and Michael's names were even made into a fashionable logo; _M&M._ There was also the scent of lavender lingering on the invitation; she frowned, as she found that the envelope was still a bit heavy, even without the parchment. Within the purple envelope was a piece of white orchid, the flower perfectly pressed, and still fresh.

She loved orchids.

"Oh," she said gaping at it horrified, as she held it between her fingertips.

**A/N:** You're probably mad, yes, you're entitled. I was supposed to update _once_ a week, I know - I really do know, but stuff came in the way. Now, I am quite back. And I certainly promise it won't be long to next.

Now, I could have written this longer, even different, but it didn't work. I just hope you too are excited for the engagement-party. Thank you for all the lovely reviews, the follows - the everything! And thank you for not badgering me to death, though with every right to do so!


	7. Chapter 7

She was almost threading a hole in the carpet with all the pacing she was doing in her pyjamas; with her cat Toby springing behind her pink socks nipping at them occasionally. Everything around her was a bit of a blur, which was obvious as her hair was tangled up, there was even a spot of forgotten toothpaste on her chin, and she was holding onto a cup of cold tea rather tightly, not taking a single sip of the cuppa. To say that Molly was nervous was an understatement, and it was still hours before the actual party – hours before it was normal to be ready – and also hours before wine was an option to be considered sane.

Her eyes sprang to the silly cat-shaped clock that mewed, as it hit 9 o'clock obviously taunting her. She knew she didn't have to prepare herself. No, she could spend hours in her pyjamas, while calmly visualising how things would turn out. That was in fact the problem, since her mind certainly managed to flesh out the details in how badly it would all end.

First of all Michael was going to be running a bit late, having been occupied for the duration of the week by some high-to-do-fancy new client he'd gotten, (some government official of some kind occupying his time) which meant that she'd have to go there alone.

Secondly she'd have to announce to what was beginning to look less like a small intimate gathering, but an actual wedding-party; that Sherlock was her _man of honour. _If he didn't suddenly feel compelled to sign on the paper that was. Not that she'd actually be mad enough to bring them to the actual party, as that would certainly lead to a catastrophic moment she kept replaying in her mind in glorious slow-motion, where everyone found out about their marriage silently judging her.

Thirdly, what if it was just the worst experience in her life? Since that outcome seemed more likely considering the history she'd had with parties that she'd attended in the Baker Street residence, or parties that in general involved Sherlock to begin with.

Every single time she'd find herself in a compromising position, which would render her speechless and teary-eyed. Of course if the invitation was a hint, it might actually be a good evening, since if she were in a fitter state she'd frame the blasted thing, but she wasn't – instead she focused on the fact that Sherlock was most likely trying to edge her into a false sense of security.

Then a small beacon of hope lit on the idea that considering the guest-list, which would certainly make 221B crammed to the brim – that Sherlock would absolutely loathe every second of trying to actually have to socialise with everyone.

Being a charming personality in front of Michael was one thing, but in front of so many? There had to be a limit to his patience, as the man was famous for having none. He'd have to certainly get bored at some point, forcing him to scribble on the piece of paper out of sheer relief, or so she hoped. Especially since having to hear, "You're finally getting engaged at_ your _age," from several of the people invited, some of which she didn't properly like (family, that was), made her feel tempted to snap, "I have been actually – for six years," out of sheer annoyance, as that seemed easier than saying who her maid of honour was.

The whole idea of an engagement party was also ridiculous, she didn't need massive parties to announce her union, since she had a fondness for small occasions really, and there was nothing wrong with those. She wasn't posh, as Michael was. He'd barely blinked when she complained of the number of people invited, and considering that it was only her side – she dreaded to think how many they'd have all together. Luckily despite Michael being posh, his parents were rather down-to-earth, which was good, as she couldn't stand the idea of them getting on the wrong foot with her own. Even if they were rich it didn't mean that they were pompous, and his mother seemed after all rather eccentric collecting owl-figurines of all kinds.

It was enough having to think about Sherlock arranging the whole thing, without having to work hard at the other details, and she could only imagine how it would turn out. She was glad that Mary stepped up on the thought of going to Baker Street earlier than her, to have an insight to the actual preparations being done (or not), and also with a plan-B if things were a proper disaster.

The latter seemed more and more likely by every second that ticked away. Molly groaned soundly, quickly setting down the cup of tea, before she stormed off to the bath intending to have a long soak.

If she were lucky she'd drown.

* * *

The idea that Sherlock would actually plan anyone's wedding was pure fantasy.

Of course he wouldn't.

Yes, he said they'd be having a party that Friday, but

John would probably be left to do all the shopping.

Of course Sherlock would be more inclined to do his tiny little projects, or be occupied with a minor case, really, than ever letting his mind drift into flower-arrangements.

It seemed bloody unlikely.

Lestrade drew them out at some point, at which John muttered, "You have a wedding to plan." Only to receive a glare and silence, before he focused on the case at hand.

John didn't want Molly to be unhappy, but by the looks of things it wasn't going in the direction any woman would like. There was absolutely nothing that Sherlock did or said that signified that anything was going to take place, except the brief first mention. Obviously it was going to be like any other Christmas, but it was when Lestrade suddenly spoke up about the invitations that he had done a double take. For a minute he assumed it was Molly's doing really, but he didn't exactly think she'd be keen to put it in the same roof as that man at the moment. The man who was obviously trying to woo her in one of the strangest methods John had ever seen in his life, or at least he liked to believe.

"Your flats filled up with experiments and body-parts. It's not exactly frills-friendly," said Lestrade with a chortle.

John couldn't disagree with him exactly, since Sherlock was infamous for having qualms when Mrs Hudson tidied up in their flat. His expectations were set to the following – that Sherlock would be sulking obstinately - they'd have cheap store-both wine for one pound each, some cheese and crackers thrown on a plate – all bought in the nearby shop by John. However when he wandered down the steps that Friday morning, planning to clear things off and do some shopping – he found himself surprised by what he found – and in all seriousness suggested his friend make a career-change.

* * *

"Don't answer that!" a voice cried out in the background, at which Mary raised a brow, while she stood out on the threshold of 221B having just rung the doorbell. This was obviously going to be an eventful evening - she was sure, and it couldn't even be called evening yet. She was there three hours earlier, than the invitation said, but if she had to do damage control – she certainly would. Usually she was always the last to arrive with a bottle of wine in her hand, but she decided that it was top-priority.

The fact that Molly was half-crying into the phone was an incentive, but the fact that she was curious spurred her on. Even if his invitations were impressive, it didn't mean that the party itself would resemble that in what shape or form whatsoever.

The door burst open, John Watson stood before her looking a bit harried the minute he'd opened, but bore a grin on his face at the sight of her.

She smiled in return, "Mary Morstan," she said holding out her hand, as he gave his to her, "Yes, we've met, John Watson."

"Last Christmas, I know - a bit difficult to forget really."

"I promise we don't have any dead bodies in the kitchen this year," he said stepping aside, letting her in, as he tried to sort out his tie, which hung loosely around his neck.

"That's a pity," she said grinning, though secretly relieved, since that was certainly nothing she'd expected when she'd gotten there. Luckily neither of them had either, as their whole flat became a crime-scene.

"No toes in the fridge?" she said.

"No," said John who'd managed to finish his tie.

"No experiments on the kitchen table?" she asked narrowing her eyes in amusement.

"Cleared off," he said laughing.

"Well, that's a good-," she begun, but her eyes had started to wander, "Oh – that's – it seems different."

Lovely was in fact the word she'd been looking for, but she found herself unable to utter it. He had done a better job than she would have, which almost annoyed her, except she felt excessively pleased that Molly had nothing to worry about, but she was sure her friend would never find any of her texts reassuring.

With a relieved sigh she turned to John smirking, "You wouldn't be against a wager, would you?"

* * *

_It's fine – M_

Of all the texts Mary could have sent her she'd sent her the absolute worst description ever, _it's fine _could mean anything of course, which she dare say it did. She almost felt resolved not to go, only realising how silly she was acting, and she forced herself out after giving Toby an excessive amount of food out of sheer pity for the creature.

It also postponed actually going there, but she seemed to find odd reasons to return to her flat – _I might need an umbrella_, she thought, even if it was a cloud-free evening, and she was going to take a taxi. She ran back about three times, before she finally took heart, and found herself on the threshold of Baker Street, which windows were open – sound of music and chattering. It didn't sound like a ghastly CD brimming with old romantic songs.

No, it couldn't be?

She looked up gaping, soon taking to ringing the doorbell, and found the door swiftly opened up by an unfamiliar man sporting a simple black shirt, "Hello – you must be Miss Hooper." She almost expected him to call her Mrs Holmes by the way he was smirking at her.

"Hi," she said rather faintly, as he allowed her inside, before he relinquished her of her coat. Promptly taking it away, causing her to look after him baffled, as he wandered off.

Sherlock had – _help?_

There were loads of people, some brought up their fine crystal wine-glasses up at the sight of her, others waved and others gave her a thumbs up. Apparently Mrs Hudson's flat was in use, so was the basement, as it was certainly crowded, but easier than it would be if they were all in the upstairs flat.

She was soon handed a champagne glass, which she quickly took a large gulp of, as she observed – there were white orchids everywhere really, intertwined with purple garlands above the doorframes, hung around the steps, placed in the bare places and a smell of lavender hung in the air. Molly could barely recognise the place, as it seemed ever so different.

The help, which she at first assumed was possibly one man – turned out to be several – an entire staff going about giving entrees to the guests, or handing them glasses of champagne, "Molly!" said a voice, and it was luckily Mary who was slowly walking down the steps carrying a piece of purple cake on a white napkin, "They told me you were here – so – what do you think?"

This was absolutely by no means close to fine, this was beyond fine, and she almost scolded her friend for even using the word fine to describe it, "What I – what I think?" she said realizing that she was just gaping at her surroundings.

"I think I hate him a bit," said Mary with a frown, "But it's a terribly good cake," she said handing her the piece, which Molly took in her one free hand.

Instead of taking a bite she drank the rest of her champagne staring around in silent amazement, "Are you okay?" asked Mary, while she remained tongue-tied.

"Can we go upstairs?" she asked with her brows furrowed.

Mary gave a brief nod, as they both ventured up the steps, finding themselves in an even more crowded room – where the regular furniture used to stay – a table decked out with all assortments of delights existed instead – including the delightful massive tower of a purple cake decorated with white orchids. At the end, by the fireplace was a little band, all carrying classical instruments, with them stood Sherlock - his eyes shut. They were playing a song she'd never even think he'd ever know – _Something, by the Beatles._ It was her absolute favourite song, which was even lovelier instrumental.

For once, as she stared at him in disbelief, not over something he'd said, or done, but by the fact that he'd manage to orchestrate an evening she could only assume would be memorable; she managed for once to forget all about him having to sign her papers.

Instead her cheeks coloured, her brown eyes widened at him and she found herself absolutely unable to say a word. While others congratulated her, she found herself unable to look away from him, and it was amongst a hug with her dad that his blue eyes finally opened meeting hers.

For a second she swore he looked surprised.

All that was forgotten the second Michael appeared at her side, kissing her neck happily, telling her that he'd gotten off early from work after all. She didn't see from the distance that Sherlock's gaze was still on her.

**A/N:** WOW, an update and it didn't take months to happen.

I hope you're not displeased.

Love the reviews from you all, which I do try to reply - most of them at least, but I do read every single one. It's always encouraging to see really.

Important notice however! Have you heard of the SAMFAS? You better have, and you better vote. For more information go to Sherlolly-com, and you'll find everything about it there.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **"I will only post this if the internet returns," which it did. So I'm posting it, and it is probably riddled with flaws. I don't know, too tired to know right now, I just hope you enjoy, and perhaps review. I enjoy the reviews, the favourites and the follows. They are a joy, and also remember the SAMFAS! Very important! It isn't the 27th of May entirely yet, and look up **_www - sherlolly - com_** if you don't know what I'm talking about.

* * *

Her heels hit the pavement with determination, as she strode across the street, heading towards the sleek black car, easily opening the door without once looking up from her camera phone._ Some_ government official in a well-cut suit sat in the car already peering at her expectantly, while she seated herself besides him without ceremony, "He's clean, sir," she said.

Mycroft Holmes pursed his lips, as the car started to drive away, "I had hoped that he'd be some diabolic mastermind in disguise. Such a pity - at least now it's established my little brother is not doing this due to some interesting case."

"No, he just works in IT, sir," said Anthea still without looking up.

"So did James Moriarty - _however_ – have I gotten an invitation for tonight?"

"No, sir."

"Shame, I did wish to see my brother make a fool of himself. I will have to save that up until the wedding."

Anthea looked up surprised, "What wedding, sir?" she said, as her hands started loosening their grip on the camera phone.

Mycroft Holmes smirked at her, returning his gaze out of the car-window, "That remains to be seen."

* * *

She had always been under the impression that he didn't listen to her incessant chattering that went on during the wee hours, when they were working on a case, or he was at Bart's to occupy himself with something amusing. Molly was certainly under the belief that if he gave no comment, he obviously didn't heed a word, which in occasion was certainly true, but often it was because he wasn't entirely certain what she wanted him to say. What comment could he make regarding favourite flowers, exactly, which he at the time understood with her endless apologies, that she wasn't requesting any, but just saying it out of sheer monotony? She wasn't fond of silence, only when her mind was keenly delved into the work at hand, and then she required it, even on occasion losing patience with him if he were to speak, which he found certainly amusing.

It was such a sight to behold, Molly wasn't a fountain of patience, not always, and she was not always a cheery female. No, she was more than the few layers one could see in an afternoon. Compliments didn't always work, especially when rooted in complete untruths, and even she would deny him liberties. Their living together had certainly shown every aspect of her character in ways he'd never known possible, so was it so very unlikely that he had kept those various details about her stored? He didn't know if his knowing of her tastes and wants would benefit him in any way, but he didn't see the point of deleting the information either.

Sherlock never knew when an occasion would arise, and it had certainly arisen. No one had expected him to actually plan anything, which was certainly unsurprising. He wasn't exactly one that people could time, when it came to his comings and goings. His nature was very unpredictable, and it was not surprising that John half-expected him to be bored after the novelty wore off.

But, there was something so very pleasing with surprising them all, doing some actual leg-work, like he would a case, finding out every detail, and making him knowledgeable about things that made him feel inclined to fling his laptop out of the window. If he were to solve the problem at hand, his actions would have to be faultless; for pressuring Molly into the belief that Michael was unsuitable would send her running off in a white dress, and him annoyed that his point didn't come across. The more perfect something was, the more the flaws would come out of the already cracked surface, and the foundation on which the festivity itself stood upon was barely sustainable. Engaged within a year of being together, with a man who was certainly the very essence of predictable dullness who lacked insight to her very distress.

Michael the idiot seemed to be under the impression that everything was fine, while Molly was on the brink of drinking herself under the table during their dinner, barely showering the man with any untoward affection that he'd expect from her. If she was in fact happy, all of those feelings would be bubbling on the surface, and he would have signed the papers without a word, but she wasn't of that he was certain.

Planning a social occasion proved simpler than he had assumed, especially were he was considered, but he wasn't built for social occasions. He did not wish to small talk, and chat like common people, but he knew he would most likely have to. He had found the perfect escape, with keeping up with the small band he had hired, as he wouldn't in fact need to open his mouth if he was indeed playing most of the time. People didn't seem fairly tempted to address him either, which he found a blessing.

They seemed more interested in viewing his flat, trying to keep their voices subdued, but it was amusing to see John being questioned about every detail – even the smiley, which he'd gunned into the wall was being regarded as a _piece of art _by an obnoxious pair, which Sherlock understood quite readily were Michael's parents. It was with some satisfaction that John said "Actually, Sherlock was just bored and had a gun in his hand." He played a bit more vigorously, then, briefly pausing for applause, when Mary had suddenly approached him. She'd arrived earlier than the rest, eagerly announcing herself as a spy on Molly's behalf, and making him like her by not giving Molly any sustainable answers regarding the evening's festivities.

"Do you know anything by the Beatles?" she said looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, making him blink at her stupidly.

"Hardly," he said.

"You should play – _Something_," she said.

"Why?"

Instead of replying she directed her attention to the rest of the bad, inquiring them if they had it in their register at all, since most of what they'd been playing had been classical. Obviously Mary intended to change that to his annoyance, but she seemed to do it with such a purpose he wondered why. He was soon forced to learn a song he'd never played, or wasn't even certain he'd heard in his life.

It might be "A classic," in Mary's eyes, but it was certainly not to him. He had to admit however, that when he started to play it, there was something rather sensitive in its nature, for every single woman in the room had instantly become quiet. A soothing thing in itself, since most of the people had persisted in talking during the most intricate pieces in his own view, but it was an interesting phenomenon nonetheless.

He let himself drift off playing with his eyes shut, only to re-open them meeting a pair of familiar brown eyes across the room riddled with strangers.

There was a flush over her cheeks that he often observed throughout the years, that crawled its way to her neck, but she wasn't avoiding his gaze. She was just keeping eye contact, with the same barefaced stare he was used to, the one that prompted a long stretch of conversation between them, which he'd previously powered through, but now was almost uncommon.

Almost every discussion between them ever since his revival had become an argument in itself, and that Molly was buried deep in the past like a relic, but there she stood her hair loosely on her shoulders, in a dress that he recognised without fault – the one she bore to his funeral.

Why was she wearing that dress? There was no logical reason as to why she would be wearing that dress, especially to her own engagement party. Of course it suited her unlike the other oddities she'd wear to Bart's, as it was him who'd picked it out.

A dark blue dress, since she'd been hesitant for an all-black dress, when he'd suggested that, as he wasn't in fact dead at the time. Very few people could say that they'd attended their own funeral, but he was one of them.

Here she was surprising him, as he certainly was her.

He could not recollect the time were her eyes were on him in such a way, though they only enforced his strength in playing the piece without flaws, but her eyes were soon drawn away from him, when Michael showed up at her side.

The urge to drop his violin upon the floor with a clatter came upon him, he kept on playing, more furiously than intended, sighing with relief when the song was over, and making way to being social, though the permanent scowl that grazed his features was perhaps not welcoming.

"You're making that face," said John out of the corner of his mouth, when he appeared at his side.

Sherlock raised a brow, "What?" he half-barked.

John looked at him in such a way that he couldn't entirely decipher, it was half-amusement and surprise, "You're an idiot face – which you keep on doing every time Michael opens his mouth," said John in a low voice gesturing towards Michael who's arm was wrapped around Molly, while they were speaking to Michael's parents.

Sherlock sighed loudly, not deigning to reply his friend, when he was obviously insinuating things as usual.

"What's wrong with him, then? He seems nice, you know, proper nice," said John.

"Unlike what? There are many _nice_ people out there, John. I hardly expect Molly to marry the next vagrant, because he helped an old lady cross a street exactly."

"You're in a right mood, tonight, then," said John with a grimace, "Aren't you supposed to be the host?"

"We are the hosts, John."

"You're the one who did all the work for once."

"I think the help would beg to differ," said Sherlock when one of the young men carrying a tray of champagne past him, and he hastily grabbed one glass, which he drank in one swift swallow.

John's eyes were trained on him in utter disbelief, and he only rolled his eyes at his friend, "I do drink, on occasion, and this is an occasion."

"I wouldn't exactly call that drinking, but you never touch the wine at Christmas."

"The two pound wine, yes. I am distrustful of everything under a certain expense," he said smirking.

John laughed.

"Right – I just hope that will cheer you up a little, since this is getting ridiculous. I got sent over here, since everyone just sees you scowling at them."

"I am not scowling," said Sherlock affronted.

"You are though, I suggest trying not to – _for the sake of law and order _-." said John mimicking him, smirking knowingly, "I've got to-,"

"Yes, Mary – how are you getting on?"

"You're asking then – you were half-yelling at us earlier for talking loudly," said John cautiously.

"That was earlier, John. If I gave the impression that I enjoyed her company, what might have come of it," he said with a smirk.

John grinned, "It's nice – really – she's-,"

"That man is talking to her - I suggest you head over there – he's not wearing any wedding band, and neither is she-,"

Mere seconds went and John soon walked off without hesitation, and Sherlock smiled over his friends usual antics regarding women. He was yet again left to his own devices grimacing at the people who were invading his space, all eagerly interested in the various knick-knacks that remained, however cleaned they'd been for the occasion. He hadn't let anyone touch the skull though, which had been carefully decorated encased with some orchids, like a centrepiece above the fireplace.

Nothing was sacred anymore.

He snorted to himself, only to find a man who was a head-shorter than him standing besides him, "Charlie Hooper," said the older man, giving him a brief nod.

Everything about Charlie Hooper spoke volumes about the man, from his well-worn dark suit, which did not suit him, as it was obviously given to him – to his untidy beard. He was obviously wearing the suit out of sheer decency, but he seemed more inclined to more ordinary clothes suiting his profession easily read in the rough hands of his. There was something pleasurable with a man who was inclined to more rough work, allowed his own daughter to work with something more scientific, as some might discourage that sort of affair. Mr Hooper didn't seem to be a man who'd discourage anyone from what they wanted.

"Sherlock-," he started with a smile, as the man took to shake his hand.

"Holmes, I know – you've orchestrated this whole thing, lovely bit of playing there, I've got to say. I think Molly loved that, I used to play that tune a bit too much when she was growing up."

"Oh," he said tilting his head in surprise, as his eyes briefly turned to Mary, who obviously was informed of that particular fact, and laughing at what John was saying with such enthusiasm that he was sure to hear more from her.

"Good thing you didn't play, _In my life_ – she would have started crying, I'm certain," said Charlie with a laugh, until his expression turned very serious, "I know that I am not speaking with a fool, Mr Holmes – so I have come to warn you." _Molly had told him, then._

"I have no intention of being badgered into signing the papers, Mr Hooper," he said keeping his voice low and serious.

Mr Hooper looked at him wide-eyed however, "I was actually talking about my ex-wife, to be honest, but funny you should mention it – it's a good thing you're keeping an eye out for her. She hoped I could try to be a bit intimidating, but I'm not keen on that myself. It's Muriel you should be worried about, though."

"Her mother?" said Sherlock curiously.

"Sherlock - her mum is a bit –_ well_ – a bit much at times, and when she finds out that you're my daughters – all hell will be loose."

"We intend to keep it a secret."

"I'm keen on telling her."

"You are?"

"That you are the maid of honour, lad - nothing else, are you mad? Muriel is the spitting image of her own mum, and I'm glad to say that Molly takes after me, or else I think we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with."

"Thank you for warning me, _Charlie_," he said finding himself taking to like the man without much effort.

"You seem a good man, really – _still_ a bit of a git, but who isn't in this day of age, really? I think you'll do good to be honest," he said giving Sherlock a sincere clap on his arm, before wandering off.

He didn't entirely know what Mr Hooper meant, that he'd do good, supposing it to be because of his duties. The duties that had yet to be announced were his, which he assumed might be avoided entirely, until Michael had started pounding a spoon on his champagne glass. People quieted down immediately, and his eyes were rapt in catching Molly's uneasy response to this, as she clung to Michael's arm.

Michael cleared his throat, "You all know why we're here, everyone's spread about, but the word will get out I'm sure. The wedding will be in December, which isn't very long to," he said with a smile, turning round to Molly for a second, "After her wishes of course, which is probably unusual I know, but it is better to let the bride have her a way – after what my mates have told me." There was a round of laughter at that, "Also, none of this tonight could have been accomplished without Sherlock Holmes."

Several who'd been avoiding his eyes gawked openly now, all curious, as Michael continued, "He's Molly's man of honour, which is an unusual title, really, but – he's really the best man for the job, as tonight's proven. I hope you'll give him a round of applause," They did, and Sherlock gave a mock-serious bow, "Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening. There's plenty of drink and food – though do drink less, and eat more. We don't want the landlady on our necks."

Mrs Hudson who was in the room, having drunk a glass to many, pleaded that she wouldn't be bothered, to another round of laughter. On that note, the prattling continued, and the music started yet again, playing "_In my life"_. Amidst this she stood seeming out of breath, excusing herself for a second, until she disappeared passing some of the staff in the kitchen.

He didn't hesitate in following her.

* * *

She went to the only room off-limits to everyone else, as there was even a sign upon the door to make people aware that fact. If the thought even occurred to them, but it was perhaps why she'd chosen it - no one would be there. The minute he'd entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him, she said, "Sorry - I just needed some air."

He resisted the temptation of making a comment on the fact that there wasn't much fresh air to be had in a bedroom, especially his, but he relented to more pleasing tactics, "It's fine," he replied pressing his lips together thoughtfully, "Though John's room would have been less suspicious."

He couldn't be entirely suppressed.

She wasn't distressed at that idea obviously, for she only gave to laugh a little, as her head was turned to him slightly.

"What?" he said.

Her grin faced however, as she tried stringing some words together, "It's nothing - I just - thank you, really it's absolutely lovely. I might just let you plan the whole wedding at this rate."

"I thought that was the general idea?" he said.

She frowned, "We're going to plan it together, I suppose, with some help from Mary, and obviously from Michael, if he's not too busy. He seemed very pleased with what you've done tonight though, so I suppose whatever we end up doing he'll be fine with."

Silence roamed between them now, as he didn't know exactly what to say. She didn't seem to be in need of comfort of any kind, and he wasn't entirely sure if he would know what to do if she did need it. There was something rather odd with having her there, how fitting it was in fact with her sitting on his bed calmly, with her hands folded on her lap, as her eyes were directed at his face, "You're not going to sign the papers, today, then? Not that I've actually brought them, I'm just wondering."

He attempted to make it look like he was giving it some thought, and he gave a rather embellished lengthy pronouncement of his, "No," which in the end made her laugh.

She seemed much more relaxed in his presence, for once, which was something unusual to say the least, as it had certainly been the opposite of that for some days, "I didn't think so," she said with a sigh, "I suppose it would be too easy, as you obviously enjoy planning parties after all. Christmas always tends to be a nightmare with you."

"Planning is simple - having to be here is a different matter entirely," he confessed.

"It's been torture, then?" she said with a raised brow.

"Yes," he drawled.

Molly smiled, "Good," she said taking to stand up from the bed, as he tried to look insulted, "Sorry – well – actually not sorry, you've not been very easy on me, Sherlock."

"Marriage is all about compromise - so I'm told."

She frowned at him, "Right, I don't think husbands are this difficult really, or well - I hope not. Well, I've got to get out there, or Michael will get worried."

The sheer mention of the man's name sent unease to his stomach, though he ignored the feeling, as he tried to move out of her way, as she was obviously heading for the door. This only resulted in her colliding straight into him, as she tried to walk to the side too.

He gave a sigh out of impatience, taking hold of her elbows to direct her out, only to find that he instead marvelled over her soft pale skin, which in turn made him lift his blue eyes to her soft brown ones.

She stared up at him startled, her eyes shifting uneasily over his face, as she slowly wrenched herself out of his grip.

They stood in front of each other for a minute, equally looking confused, before she finally managed to step past him and get out – slamming the door in her wake.

Sherlock's hand lingered on the doorknob for a minute, until he released it, unblinkingly staring into his bedroom; he now knew fully well by the overwhelming sensation that coursed through his very body why she wore that particular dress; _sentiment._


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I hope you read.

Her mother had been a nightmare really, her voice practically a shriek in the distance the minute her dad had given her the news, as softly as he could, which was blurting it out the minute she arrived. They both knew that she wouldn't bear it very well if it were sugar coated, the woman hated having people on their toes around her, despite the fact that people naturally felt inclined to do so. It had definitively not made things easier when Sherlock didn't exactly appear out of his bedroom, to fully explain his duties as Molly's man of honour; a fact that everyone was aware of, something her mother pointed out repeatedly to her sheer horror.

It would have definitively been easier to do it over the phone, as her mother didn't exactly deserve being kept in the dark, but she knew it wouldn't actually have been easier. Her mother was clever enough to have asked more questions as to why he was her maid of honour, of all people, and women she knew, "You certainly know better suited people for that job," her mother muttered disapprovingly, "Even I would have been a better choice, and one that people could actually understand."

"Wouldn't you say he did a good job, though?" said Mary only to receive a glower in return, causing her to shrink behind Molly.

"If he appeared, then, yes, I'd congratulate him, but considering he's locked up in his bedroom of all places – I'd rather not – if he's supposed to be the host – why on earth isn't he out greeting people?"

Molly wondered the same as a matter of fact; she couldn't quite understand why he didn't resurface, as they hadn't exactly argued either. It was a first in a very long time, she supposed, which pleased her to a certain extent, though she knew he'd find new ways of aggravating her. He'd been acting so strangely though, his expression had been an odd one at that, one that she couldn't quite understand.

His face kept popping up in her head, only causing her more headache than she already had half-awake tucked under her duvet, while Michael's arm was lazily wrapped around her, "Morning," he whispered into her ear, and she could practically hear his smile, as he gave her a kiss on the neck - his favourite spot on her.

She groaned slightly, dreading to wake up, and face the storm of whatever was coming, for she surely felt a sense of foreboding. An ill feeling in the very core of her that she couldn't exactly shake off and it was probably one of the many lies that were digging themselves through her. Her she was with Michael, properly, for the first of what seemed like weeks, and she only felt guilty.

It was ridiculous.

"Too much wine, then?" he said good-naturedly, holding her closer to him, as she soon turned to face him.

He looked handsome there he was, while she probably looked like the wreck she felt, her head heavy on her shoulders, "Probably," she muttered, her mind reeling over the fact that John had been subjected to Michael's_ convenient _assumption that he and Sherlock were a couple, as Michael suggested John lure him out of his bedroom ("Odd of a couple to have separate bedrooms though."). She had at least told him the truth when he noticed she'd wandered off for a minute – that she'd been properly overwhelmed by all Sherlock had done – which lead the pair of them having a private conversation. A thing that Michael wasn't at all jealous of, though he wished at the time that he too could have thanked him properly, and not just publically.

"Michael – we need to talk," she said, when she noticed he was about to say something, and she'd lose her nerve if he did.

"He's not gay, then?" said Michael with a loop-sided grin, causing her to widen her eyes at him, "Not very difficult to figure out really, especially considering the amount of "no's" John uttered, and the fact that he spent most of the night practically attached to Mary, though you could have told me earlier. It's alright to have straight male friends, I know I've got a bunch of female ones – even if they're not exactly my best man - _woman_."

Michael hovered over her mouth with a knowing look on his face, as she grinned up at him, until she started to frown, "That's not what I actually wanted to talk about."

* * *

John lowered the newspaper a bit, before swiftly throwing it aside, as he glared at the sight of the flat, which was a mess. It wasn't exactly the best staff, as he'd tried to advice them to tidy up the chaos, but they said it wasn't a part of their contract. He doubted that, but he'd tried several times to coax Sherlock out of his bedroom to argue with them – not that he did in fact.

The man hadn't been out of his room since last night, and to be honest John was worried. He was used to Sherlock throwing tantrums really, but he wanted to know why he was hiding.

Mary and him quickly noticed that both Sherlock and Molly were in fact missing; and it wasn't exactly hard to figure out where they could be talking undisturbed.

Molly seemed fine when she reappeared, a bit dazed, but that was quickly forgotten the minute Michael appeared by her side. It made him consciously aware of the fact that Sherlock was in fact evaluating Michael, except he seemed to hate the man for no proper reason.

Michael wasn't a prick - no criminal-master-mind – not really an idiot either - to be honest - John couldn't find one thing wrong with him, except the fact that he was very trusting, which considering Sherlock wasn't the best thing to be. But, of course maybe it was all true; maybe Sherlock was just looking out for Molly, meaning that she wasn't in fact as happy as she gave the impression of being. The fact that he couldn't spot it himself didn't exactly mean it wasn't true. However when had Sherlock ever been an expert regarding feelings?

The man had never caught on the fact that Molly had fancied him, or well he probably did, but he had terrible ways of confronting her feelings for him. Now he wondered if the opposite was true - if this time around, maybe Sherlock was the one with the feelings, and Molly – _not_? That Sherlock was wrong, because he was hoping to find fault in her, just so he'd have an excuse to end the engagement?

John tried getting him out the night before to talk, which was knocking persistently on his door half-shouting about the fact that they were supposedly a couple. Honestly he'd had a wine too many, so it had probably not the best way to attack the situation. The second time he turned up he tried to be a bit gentler, still receiving silence, until he on the third time when everyone had left - only heard, "Goodnight John," and he'd walked away after that.

All of this would be fine, if it hadn't been the afternoon, and Sherlock wasn't still locked inside his bedroom like a sullen teenager.

John eyed the newspaper on the floor, before he finally took to stand outside Sherlock's bedroom door once more, "Are you still in there sulking?" he said crossing his arms.

Silence followed – John groaned – "Fine – hide - since that's obviously going to do you loads of good!" He'd started to walk away the very minute the door was slammed open, and Sherlock strode out with a scowl on his face, as he spat, "No!" _obviously sulking._

John gaped at him in amazement, "Right, fine - then eat – do something instead of keeping yourself up in your bedroom like some bloody teenager. I don't exactly think Molly would be impressed."

"Why on earth would I want to impress her?" said Sherlock scathingly, his back to him, as his hands were on his hips, soon turning quickly around to face him.

John could see from his face that he hadn't been sleeping properly; there were dark marks under his eyes; eyes that lacked the usual clearness that they owned, and the man was still in his robe. This entire display resembled those periods when they had no cases, and Sherlock was the very essence of bloody annoying.

"Like you weren't last night?" said John rolling his eyes.

"Why would I be interested in impressing _her_? I am not interested in some namby-pamby relationship with some silly pathologist who after all is engaged to a man so oblivious it makes Anderson look bright! Why would I of all people be interested in a relationship? There is no reason I would be, as I don't exactly see the point of those – cluttering up anyone's head – disillusioning them into believing that there exists something as incomprehensible as _the one – _soul mates – and all that nonsense!" snapped Sherlock in one breath, as he'd taken a step towards him, his eyes blazing in anger, "Don't you know me at all? How could you ever find it conceivable that I of all people would fall in love with someone, especially - _her_?"

John opened his mouth to interrupt, only to have Sherlock override him, continuing to speak in one breath, his hand shakily on his face, as his eyes were clenched shut, "I can understand that it happens to ordinary men, of course - men with very little understanding, who lack my mental capacity, to see that there are far more interesting things, than arranging flowers for a party, or choosing the font for an invitation – who aren't driven by their endless need of company, _to get off_ – I don't need company!"

John shut his mouth, raising a brow at that, "I can cope quite satisfactorily on my own, without anyone's help or presence. I have managed quite nicely without any of those for years. Why would I_ need_ her? Why would I even _want_ her? I don't want her – don't need her, and I especially don't see the point of this derogative drivel of having people be a nuisance in my flat yakking loudly over a purple cake!"

Sherlock looked very serious now, his eyes open again, "I was bored," he bit out, "I am always bored – this was only supposed to be a game – a distraction from everything else – but of course…"

His face; an angry grimace, turned into a rather lost expression, a furrow in his brows, as his blue eyes stared out into the distance, "I had to become one of those simpering fools after all – _sentiment – _it had to happen, and so very convenient at a time like this. I have gone throughout life, without any of these issues at hand, without having found myself in fits of passion (John sincerely doubted that) over something so insipid as this, but no – instead my mind is filled with relentless thoughts of her, I thought it was due to the situation at hand – but no –always – clinging to every fabric of my mind – _my wife_ - fine, John, fine - _you win_," and with that Sherlock stormed off to the bathroom.

John sighed loudly, shaking his head, before he went to make himself a coffee.

* * *

Sherlock finally emerged in fresh clothes, looking a bit more well-rested hours later, not answering any of the questions John put to him, since he honestly wondered what he was going to do about the fact that Molly was in fact engaged – to be married - even if she was married to him.

There was that, and the fact that Sherlock could hardly expect it would end just because he confessed his feelings. Molly wouldn't exactly open her arms to a man who'd been – _well_ – John put it as nicely as he could – an arse to her repeatedly over the years.

This fact Sherlock didn't answer, or disagree with for that matter, which left John at least with the belief that he was thinking it through.

Sherlock sat plucking at his violin, his eyes surveying the room quietly, not listening to a word he was saying. He was probably at his mind-palace at this point, oblivious as he was to every comment, "Her dress," Sherlock suddenly said, causing John to look up from his laptop.

"Sorry?" he said confused.

"She wore it to my funeral," said Sherlock with a smirk, "Obviously-," but the sentence stopped there, for the doorbell suddenly went off, "Are you expecting somebody?" he said turning to John who shook his head.

Mrs Hudson was quick on her feet downstairs, answering the doorbell, as Sherlock put his violin aside for a minute – his eyes narrowing.

The unexpected visitor was chatting with Mrs Hudson whose voice stopped, until they both heard the visitor run up the steps to their flat.

John immediately shut his laptop setting it aside, as he caught the eyes to Sherlock who'd taken to steepling his hands looking thoughtful.

The person who appeared in the doorway was the last person John had ever expected to show up really - Michael.

"Oh – hello," said John taking to look nervously at Sherlock who was smiling at Michael – a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Good evening, Michael – to what do we owe the pleasure? Was there anything amiss last night then? I sincerely hope not," said Sherlock in that all too familiar voice, that John heard him often give to his brother Mycroft – it was dripping of condescension.

Michael's face however was etched in disbelief, a tint of red in his cheeks, as he was clearly glaring at Sherlock, while one of his hands was clenched around some rolled up-papers.

John stared at the papers – it couldn't be?

"Molly told me," said Michael with a strained voice, "She told me about everything – and I offered to get your signature - thought it would be appropriate husband to fiancé. After all I'm here for your approval, aren't I?"

Sherlock blinked, while John's eyes were fixated on Michael who promptly flung the papers at Sherlock who caught them, "You blackmailed my girlfriend out of - _boredom_? I really hope not, honestly, considering how much she's helped you – how much she's been your friend – you wouldn't give her this - because you thought it would be funny. She apologized for you, of course, but I think I'd rather hear it myself, to be honest," said Michael with a stern face stepping inside the living room, completely ignoring John, who's eyes worriedly flickered from the man – to his mute friend who'd been all words earlier on.

Sherlock's jaw clenched, his face unreadable, "I'm sorry," he said unfurling the papers in his hands, as he quietly gestured to John who blinked stupidly for a second, before handing him a pen without argument.

"I didn't want to tell her that she could have gotten it annulled – didn't want her to think even worse of you really," said Michael with a much softer tone breathing out deeply, as Sherlock signed the paper, handing it silently to Michael who took it in his hands.

"I don't think it's such a big surprise that we don't actually want you there, Mr Holmes – please – don't bother us anymore - right – bye John," he said with a brief nod to John who gave him a half-hearted smile in return, with that Michael walked off leaving them to themselves.

The silence that followed was overwhelming, only broken when Sherlock slowly brought up his violin with a stony-faced expression, as John admitted rather gently, "You deserved that."

"I know," said Sherlock.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Thank you for reading.

* * *

The trail of her dress went for what seemed to be miles, the slow walk lengthening it, he thought, as he with a blank expression looked on. He looked at her wrapped in a white dress with a hint of soft pink; long-sleeved and magnificent with a flush in her cheeks, as the smile she bore bested all he'd ever seen her have. It could not compare to those he'd ever managed to form in her features.

She was happy; happier than he could ever make her.

There was a laugh in her eyes that shone in such a way, that he could not look away. He drew his breath, willing himself away, but she weeded him out of the crowd.

She would always find him in the end.

Her brown eyes were scrutinizing his face, as he only could think of what a fool he had been. Her she was on her wedding day, but those eyes of hers twisted into beseeching ones. He needed the strength, he felt compelled to stand up, but he was rooted to his seat. His muscles would not move, would not twist him out of his position, as he could only observe.

The minute they finally yielded, blood rushing to his head, as he rose to find the room barren. There was only traces of rice on the floor to every suggest a wedding had been had, covering him, and he felt like he was drowning in every piece of it.

Sherlock woke up grimacing, feeling warm, as he wrenched off his covers. There was no relief in his dreams, no solace to be found there, as it was infiltrated to the very core. He was frustrated to say the least, for he needed release, in what form he couldn't say – a walk – some cigarettes, perhaps several, or maybe a five per cent solution? It was a thing he'd been avoiding, a temptation he'd tried to strike away from his mind, but it kept crawling back. If only there were ways of deleting feelings, but the emotions lived underneath his very skin. The tiny prickles he'd felt at touching her still not releasing him, as he hoped it would with no contact.

He tore on his clothes without thought, without consideration at their state, or smell, as his mind raced. For he had not left the flat for two weeks, two weeks with John being ever so careful around him, anxiously keeping an eye with him, while Mrs Hudson tried to chat about every little thing – tidying away the scraps of food that he left untouched.

He needed – he needed – no – he wouldn't say, or even dare think it, and he sprang out with brisk steps grabbing his coat striding out of 221B with his hands curled into fists in his pockets.

He could barely stand, as he almost stumbled on the pavement wandering in the dark. It was still night apparently, the best time to keep his mind distracted, and he almost wished someone's hand would connect to his face – make him feel something else. It didn't take long, during his long strides, that he caught sight of the black sleek care, one of the few besides the taxis keeping up with him.

He turned his head briefly, trying to ignore it, as he kept walking. His brother knew it was _danger night,_ as he so nicely put it; it irritated him how he kept watch, how he'd know when he was out, but he knew that his absence wasn't overlooked by anyone. Lestrade had even badgered him to take a case, while he just kept a newspaper in front of him muttering about the concept being dull. Only one person seemed to ignore his absence, most likely wishing it, and he couldn't even utter her name.

His quick pace turned into running.

* * *

How long he ran he didn't know, how fast he didn't consider, but it was only when he stopped – feeling the taste of blood in his mouth, that he considered idly that it was enough. At least there was some other emotion left in him, he thought, as he stopped taking to stand closely by the road.

The car halted right besides him, having managed to have kept up with him, despite his attempts of shaking him off. He stepped inside, slamming the door behind him, as he caught sight of his brother who looked less than well, rather tired, but by a small glance he saw that it was around three in the morning. He considered this fact, wondering how his brother had been so quick, but he could see by the dishevelled look that he'd stayed there waiting. It was almost as if he knew his limitations – two weeks – and he would break.

Mycroft raised a brow at him, "Out on a little stroll, then?"

The car drove off, buildings flashing pass, they were heading back to Baker Street by the look of it, and Sherlock was caught by surprise, as he found his brother handing him a glass of brandy, before occupying himself with one too.

"Drink it - it might help," said Mycroft drily, though his expression spoke otherwise.

"No," he said his gaze fixed to the window.

"You were out of for a reason, Sherlock. We both know I'm not stupid, neither should you pretend I am, even if you do wish I were," said Mycroft still edging the glass towards him.

"Fine," he spat with a ragged breath swallowing a generous amount, handing the glass back, as he felt the burn in the back of his throat.

Neither said anything, marvelling in the silence that cradled above them, but his brother finally spoke, "What have you planned to do?"

Sherlock turned pointedly to his brother in surprise, "Is this an intervention? You've come to advice me, then?" Mycroft glared in return to which he replied tersely, "I haven't planned to do anything."

"I have a hard time believing that you don't intend to surprise us all, as one could suspect that these two weeks have been a remarkable vanishing act in itself, rivalling only your death. It is good to know that they were both at the hands of Doctor Hooper, herself."

He almost physically flinched at the mention of her, "I don't intend to, and frankly I am surprised you care at all."

Mycroft emptied his only glass, filling it liberally up, as he then proceeded to say, "I do worry, and I am not the only one - but there is a woman who wants to speak with you."

"Not mother?" said Sherlock disgruntled, which made Mycroft snort with derision.

"No, she doesn't know anything. She is under the tender impression that you are still a bachelor. If she knew – imagine – however - secreting yourself away in your flat for weeks will certainly not help you, or anyone for that matter. I suggest you try another tactic for all our sakes."

Sherlock pursed his lips, as he recounted another situation where he was handed a cigarette, "I thought you meant sentiment was a defect."

Mycroft gave to smile, "If you deny yourself anything firmly enough, it will be an ever large one, don't you agree? You have never managed to pretend you didn't care - your friends are a _living_ proof of that, and after all – Bart's has always been your home from home. You've just been rather spectacularly ignorant." One day he'd delete John's blog out of sheer annoyance.

The car finally stopped, Sherlock's hand was on the handle, and without looking he said, "Who is it you want me to see? A case, is it?"

He was too tired to argue, too worn for any childish battle to even consider a refusal, which he knew his brother saw as a destructive sign, "A friend - I will call you tomorrow and give you the address – try to get some rest, I don't want to drive after you on another _jog_." With that he withdrew, and watched as his brother drove off.

Sherlock finally exhaled properly, watching the air from his lungs turn into smoke in the air, before he walked away to 221b, hoping for the slightest chance that in his next dream he would have the strength to stand up.

* * *

The restaurant was distinguished, and apparently chosen by the woman who Mycroft didn't wish to disclosure. Neither would he explain if it was at all relevant, as he could be swindled into a trivial case his brother wanted to rope him into - to distract him from hiding. John had been particularly baffled to see him up and about, but he'd just left without another word.

There was no point in explaining, though he found himself particularly foolish for listening to his brother for once. It felt rather odd to do so, without arguing his point, or pretending he was too busy, but he had very little to lose at this point. If it was a case he'd take it, since the emails that dropped in were beyond droll; all of the words slipping from his mind in mere disinterest.

A part of him even found himself foolishly inclined to believe for a single second that his brother had managed to force Molly into meeting him, when he was quite certain by the mere fact that Mary still hadn't met John since the engagement-party, that the idea was preposterous to say the least.

Though, when the idea of her showing up had slipped his mind, he found himself not entirely wrong in that assumption, when a woman who looked like an older version of her appeared, though with a less welcoming face.

Her mother tutted at the sight of him, "You're Sherlock Holmes then, I can see why she likes you," she said taking to shake her head, as she settled in the chair opposite to him laying her handbag on the floor.

The waiter soon appeared by her side, and she ordered a salad and wine, while Sherlock remained pensive, albeit perplexed as to why his brother had set this meeting.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, then?" she said.

"I'm not hungry."

"No wonder you're skinny."

There was a vast difference between her and Charlie Hooper; her hands were well-kept and smooth, the nails dyed red, and her hair kept short and dark-blonde, a colour he staked wasn't her natural hair colour. Even her clothes were freshly pressed and by the look of them recently purchased. Unlike Charlie who looked homemade, she gave the impression of self-made.

"You're not wondering then, why I'm here talking to you?"

"I suppose my brother-,"

"He didn't tell me, no," she interrupted, before saying in a rather softer tone, "Charlie did, though your brother did ring me up explaining it all, which I'd rather prefer that you did, but you were busy in your room – so - you've been married to my daughter for six years, Mr Holmes?"

He didn't know what he could say, except, "Yes." Charlie was right in warning him, though he felt less prepared in this setting than he had been at the party, as he was facing her in a more intimate location. From the look of her, he knew she would not take it well if he walked out, so he kept himself put, even if his escape was not far from his reach.

"Why her?"

"Sorry?"

"You must know other women who could have helped you with that case of yours, from what I've heard you didn't entirely need to get married to begin with."

"The man never stayed at the same location, and we needed to catch him in the act, as it wouldn't be prudent to catch him after he had finished his job," said Sherlock more scathingly than intended.

Muriel furrowed her brows, "Did you catch him?"

"Obviously."

"Well, then what are you going to do then?"

"About what?"

"You can't take this sitting down, I've read the blog to that friend of yours, from my understanding you're stubborn to the point of difficult, and exactly the sort of person who doesn't deserve her."

"I am aware of the fact, Mrs Hooper."

She just looked at him; her blue eyes staring at him in such a way that he almost assumed she was deducing him, and his every move.

"Good - if you didn't know I wouldn't like you," she said with a slight grin that caught him off guard, "I love my daughter, every bit of her, and yes she's not exactly done things like I would have in her position, but I want the best for her. The fact is, to be very honest, Michael's a bit of an idiot."

Sherlock laughed, only to receive a glare.

"It's not funny, Mr Holmes. She's marrying the idiot, after all, and of course I'll accept him – but you may be wondering how I know he's an idiot? His family. Molly's much more apt to please, than I've ever been, and she doesn't see how much they judge her. One can tell a lot about a man's family – and I'd rather not celebrate Christmas with a bunch of middle-class idiots who thought the skull of yours was a piece of art. It was a_ skull_," she said deadpan, taking a small sip of her wine that had just arrived.

"She has made her choice," he said quietly, averting her eyes.

"Yes, she has, she has made a choice, but you've still got time to change it – I'd rather not have a divorce and a marriage at the same day, thank you very much, but if you're going to do anything – you've got to do something different, really. A thing I suppose you should have done from the start – being her friend. It might seem hard, but that's all she's ever wanted from you, and that's what she's always referred to you as."

He stared, doubting her every word, but the woman proceeded to wave him off with her hand, "Now go, I don't like eating with people watching."

He stood up in surprise, smirking a little, "You're meeting my brother?"

"Charlie," she said without ceremony, "Actually."

He wrapped himself in his coat, slipping on his scarf, when he curiously said, "Why aren't you-,"

She cut him off, "Because he didn't go after me. Because a woman can only do so much waiting for a man who spends his time thinking about it."

"Thank – you," he said with a confused expression.

"Shut up, I'm doing this for my daughter, I'll be happy with whatever she chooses in the end, but I want her to know there's a choice – and I don't want anyone to ever believe she's less worth than she is, she's had enough of that in her life, and you seem to me – a man who knows that she is worth ten of you."

* * *

Mary had been busy, too busy to meet, as it was apparently a riot at work with "Christmas" soon coming round, "Loads of revising, and tests, and the whole lot of it – it's a bore reading another line about Charles Dickinson and his use of symbolism. He was just trying to tell a story," but John knew that she had to be on some way actively avoiding him. It was obviously due to Sherlock, not that he felt at all keen to leave his friend, when he was so absolutely – gone, but he had definitively needed a break. He was glad that she accepted having coffee with him, though, and so he sat at the coffee shop waiting patiently, for Mary who waved at him getting herself a cuppa.

She settled down in front of him, dropping loads of bags onto the floor, "Doing your shopping, early, then?" he said.

"Yes," she moaned, "You'd think it would be easy, but it's not even close to it. It's the end of October, and some of the shops have already got Santa Claus."

John grinned, "I always leave that sort of thing last minute, really."

"I'm not surprised, but I've gotten you a present, you know."

"You have?" he said startled.

She grinned evilly, "No – I haven't – I might give you a jumper though, if that makes you feel better prepared."

John snorted, "Thanks."

"Don't thank me quite yet," she said taking a sip from her coffee, as she settled herself better in her seat, "How's things?"

"It's been – _well_ – fine, I suppose."

"Is that another word for not good?"

"Yeah," said John.

"Then I've been very fine, myself," she said laughing, "Now - I hate myself for even asking, but how's he been, then?"

John licked his lips, taking a long sip from his coffee, before he said, "A nightmare."

"Molly's been the opposite of that, though her nerves have been shot of course, because of all the planning – I almost wish he was still doing it. There's so many details we keep overlooking, and I've still got my job to consider."

"He does have a lot of time on his hands – well – at least he gives that impression. He's not mentioned doing a case, these last weeks at all."

"That's not you suggesting he help, right?"

"No – I just – I'd like him to actually do something, more than sulking, since trying to make him eat, is like a job in itself."

"I don't think Molly would love that idea – you know – I just wish he'd signed the papers instead of being such a git."

"What?" said John looking properly bewildered.

* * *

Molly held the phone pressed to her ear; a look of disbelief etched in her face, as she took in every word her friend was saying in a rather annoyed voice, "Why – why would he do that?" Molly said confused.

The answer to that question didn't come from her friend, but rather another voice that spoke in the lab besides her, "He was afraid of losing you, I suppose."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Pretend I'm not here.

* * *

"Michael lied – Sherlock did actually sign the papers," said Mary.

"Why – why would he do that?"

"He was afraid of losing you, I suppose."

"He didn't need to lie, though."

"We haven't all been terribly honest, have we?"

She lets the phone drop, he can still hear Mary's voice on the other end echo her name, and he stands with his hands in his pockets. She is however not a prize to be taken, he cannot claim her by telling her anything, and he sees himself in the reflection of her eyes; what is he to her at this point?

He almost feels his insides coil; twisting into knots, "You signed the papers?" her voice is dripping of disbelief.

"Yes."

"Oh – right –_ why_?"

He almost wonders why himself, but he knows the answer, it burns inside his throat, almost revolving out of his mouth, "You," but he only smirks a short reply, "He asked."

"You didn't when I asked?" she said with her brows knitted, "Sorry – wait-," she holds her hand up for a second, "Mary – I've got to go." Unlike him who wouldn't even have thought of saying goodbye, and he almost laughs at the sound of protest in Mary's voice. It is because of her he's there – John is quite adept at texting, after all, even if the man is terribly slow at typing.

"You weren't certain when you asked, or else you would have informed him sooner, don't you agree?" he said, when she finally pocketed the camera phone.

Her eyes flash at him, narrowing ever so slightly, and he feels rather foolish there he stands, "Did you come to tell me that?" she said rather slowly.

"Word does travel fast - I was just conveniently here," he said trying to pretend he had other things to be done by slipping off his scarf.

"You haven't been – _here _- lately, why not?" she said, and she seems earnestly surprised.

He blinked, as he quickly said, "Case."

"John's blog hasn't been updated in a while, though – are you okay?"

"Fine," he said rather tersely.

"You look a bit -," her nose scrunches up at the sight of him, her eyes blinking rapidly, "-sick."

"I'm not," he said slipping off his coat, before putting his things aside to avoid her gaze, but her eyes follow him.

She doesn't stop with her worried expression however, when he's de-coated. It was a better look than subdued anger, but she almost made him collide into the counter the minute her hand grazed his face, soft palm on hot skin.

His face feels relief and agony at the same time.

This was not going to be easy.

Being _friends._

Isn't this what friends do – _chat and care?_ They check each other's temperatures, but he isn't accustomed to this. Not to her, not like this - her hand drops, as he takes a step back avoiding her.

He was reduced into a simpering adolescent school-boy, forced to twiddle his thumbs, instead of using them for something more entertaining - visions appear in his head, which cause his face to heat up extensively, "You're a bit warm," she said with her brows raised, taking in his look of frustration, as if that of mild fever.

He can almost hear John's voice in his head, annoying as it grazes the subject itself, _just tell her._

"No," he said hoping she wont reach out anymore.

"OK," she said starting to walk away, taking hold of an empty cup on the counter in one hand, and grabbing a stack of files with the other.

She's about to leave, he feels he has to stop her.

"Where are you going?" he finds himself calling out.

She stops walking, turning around to him surprised.

"What's wrong? Do you need something?"

He doesn't expect things to go this easily, without being chastised, without some retribution. She isn't supposed to be helpful, but she has always been helpful; a terribly thing he has used for a very long time.

"No – I – I wanted to apologize."

For more than one thing, annoying in a way how one feeling makes all of the others collide.

"Oh," she said giving a brief nod waiting expectantly. It's been a long shift by the look of her, she looks tired in more ways than one, there's even a tiny stain from the cantina's lasagne on her shirt collar. Her hair is a messy bun unlike the usual bouncy ponytail, but her white coat is impeccable as always. She looks different in a way, the air around her feels rather difficult to breathe in, especially when her expression changes, her eyes crinkling up at the edges, as she tilts her head.

"Sorry, should I tell you when I'm ready?" she said breaking the silence.

He isn't speaking; he is supposed to be talking.

"No – I-," he stammers, not managing to find the words, which flutter away immediately.

He swallows.

"Was that it?"

"Molly," he said in his familiar voice, the voice he is used to utilizing in the lab, but it seems to falter.

"What?" she almost snaps back.

"I am sorry."

She doesn't say anything, instead she looks pensive, and he wants to understand; he wants to know what she's thinking, since she doesn't look mad, she doesn't seem at all difficult regarding Michael's ill-judgment, instead she looks like she deserves the blow herself.

He feels ever so out of his element, even more so, when she finally speaks, "You're probably only apologizing because I told Michael – you never expected that," and with that she walks out. He's left staring after her, his mouth half-open, but he closes it firmly – _perfect_ – she thought he was an idiot.

* * *

John lets the newspaper drop the minute Sherlock finally barges into the flat tearing off his coat and scarf, not considering them with the usual swagger, "Went well, did it?" he said cracking a grin, only to receive a glare in return, "Molly rang though, asked if you were sick."

Sherlock strides into the kitchen, his hands fidgeting for a minute, until he starts to tinker with the experiment he left on the kitchen table. He's not answering him, though, which is after all quite typical at this point.

"Did you tell her?" he said.

"What exactly?" said Sherlock.

John groaned, "Come on, don't pretend – not now – it's a bit late after that bloody monologue you had – after what he did-,"

"You mean Michael -_ lying_? Hmmm? Consider all of the lies I have spun throughout the years? Does this make me the better man? I thought you were convinced that Molly wouldn't open her arms inviting me in exactly – she _is_ after all engaged."

John gapes at him, "I almost liked it better when you didn't care about that bit."

"Then I didn't know how I felt, John," Sherlock spat, slamming his hands on the kitchen table, shutting his eyes momentarily, feeling his hands tremble at his own outrage.

"Right, ok, but what's going to happen now? You're just going to let her marry him, without ever telling her?"

"I am going to help."

John blinks, "Sorry?"

Sherlock smirks at this, looking much more pleased with himself, than he did mere seconds ago, "I am still the man of honour, apparently."

"What – but – why?"

"To help, obviously."

"Just that – no grand scheme – no master plan – oh, let's be the one who stands up at her wedding day?"

"No – just being _nice_," he said through gritted teeth, "Is that so difficult to believe?"

"Yes," said John with a grimace.

* * *

_- Earlier -_

He was acting very strange, the fact that she ended up ringing John asking if he'd been ill, only to have the man laugh, before hurriedly saying, "No – no – he's just – well – Sherlock, you know," It wasn't exactly a diagnose. The fact that Michael had lied to her didn't make her terribly happy, though she deserved it, but she couldn't understand why.

Why did Michael feel he couldn't tell her that Sherlock had done that? Especially considering the fact that she didn't feel it altered much, except that he'd at least been nice for once. For she truly hadn't expected him to do more than argue his point across properly, tossing the papers aside like an overgrown child, which was what Michael told her he'd done. It didn't feel terribly out of character, like apologizing and signing did.

Well, that was a beat defeatist of him, he who'd done everything so intricately difficult for her – since even her barrister Karen had worked against her. Karen owed Sherlock one, apparently, but now Karen owed Molly. She didn't stop to point out the fact that Karen could be easily discredited if word was out.

At least she had the right documents this time around, which she'd looked over twice. It was for an annulment – a one-sided divorce, which was easily done without the other signature being required. The one thing she didn't think was at all possible, but she'd heard that word before. She supposed the reason she didn't consider it properly was by the fact that she was shocked at being married to the man so long without knowing.

She'd been married to him for six years – the fact still irked her to bits, making her squirm a ridiculous amount, since it was still absolutely silly. Now, she could at least laugh of it for once.

He'd been the last thing on her mind the last two weeks though, she was too busy planning with Mary, as they were both growing mad by it all. There was so much to be done, Michael didn't have time considering how much his client was taking up his, so he had to trust her and Mary with a bottle of wine (several too, to think of it) making all the arrangements.

Who knew thinking about a wedding felt nearly as exhausting as having it? It made her consider getting someone better qualified, who'd just understand what she wanted, and of course her mind wandered to her rather perfect little engagement-party, to her annoyance. How had he known, really? It was maddening how he managed to impress and infuriate her at the same time.

This of course made her rather cross, as he finally returned to Bart's after a lengthy absence – she'd rather expected him to stride in without a chip on his shoulder before this – signature or not.

He'd apologized to her, even when she hadn't asked for it, or even hinted, which was good. He was perhaps growing a little, however slowly that was. Her mind kept turning towards him until she finally allowed herself to think over the sheer stupid idea that would most likely make Michael gobsmacked.

Well – he had lied, especially after the lengthy speech of honesty being so important. It wasn't _that_ terribly awkward of her to pop in an hour later – with a coffee in her hand; black with two sugars, "Sherlock?" she said, expecting his head to turn up a minute or two later, but it lifted up immediately.

She almost started almost dropping the coffee down her shirt, as she quickly said, "Sorry – am I -,"

"No," he said turning fully around on his stool.

He still looked rather flushed in her opinion, it did worry her, as his pale exterior seemed rather unfamiliar with the action, "So, I was wondering – would you still like to help?" This was a stupid idea really; quite literally the most idiotic idea, and he'd obviously turn her down.

He looked confused, "With what?"

"The wedding," she said after a minute, an uneasy smile grazing her features, but she couldn't subdue it, even how much she tried.

He seemed to give it some consideration, biting his lip thoughtfully, as he then said, "Yes."

"Really?" she said surprised, "You will?"

"It's not very difficult." Like any three-year old could plan a wedding.

"But isn't it boring?" she said rather sceptical to his lack of argument.

He wasn't supposed to be agreeing, perhaps he still felt guilty._ Guilty?_ That was an odd idea. The man had thought he'd drugged his friend once. He didn't seem particularly guilty at that, or when he threw out her rug that one time – rearranging her furniture.

She almost regretted asking him for his help.

"Do you want my help or not?" he said sounding rather irritated.

She frowned, "You do owe me, you know."

"I didn't say no."

"You didn't, but you can't actually expect me to believe you'd say yes, just because."

"Molly-,"

"Yes?"

"Are we friends?"

"I suppose."

"I am told friends assist each other."

He made it sound like being a friend was a job.

She snorted; considering their previous history that fact was rather one-sided, if one ignored the fact that he'd been helpful with the engagement-party, even if he wanted to stop her marrying Michael. Why did thinking about that make her head spin?

"Why?" she said.

"What?"

"Do you like Michael?"

"I don't have particularly warm feelings about the man."

"Sherlock-,"

"You are marrying him – why does my opinion even matter? You didn't want it before."

"You didn't even give it properly before – but between friends, then?"

"He's – fine," he said, though she could see he was lying, but she liked the touch no matter.

"Thanks," she said grinning slightly, while he looked displeased.

"I am invited, then?" he said after a minute.

"I always sort of expected you'd show up anyway if you actually wanted to, to be entirely honest," she said.

He smiled in return, not coming with his usual retort, which made her wonder really. Neither said anything, so she put the coffee on the counter hoping he'd take it, as she took in the sight of his rather tired looking face, "Bed," she said scratching her nose.

He looked flummoxed at that, almost stuttering, "Sorry?"

"You should go to bed," she said yawning, "Sorry, a bit tired myself, I suppose – my shifts finished though," she said about to head out.

"I'll walk you," he said standing up ignoring the coffee, which she ended up staring at.

"Oh," she said hands on her hips, taking to look at him, while he hurriedly put on his coat and scarf," There's really nothing wrong?"

He looked angry, "Does there have to be?"

"Whatever it is, you're obviously struggling a bit."

"I am not struggling!" he snapped, immediately looking harassed, before quickly adding, "My apologies - I should go," and with that he left, while she stood perplexed in the lab.

Something was very wrong with Sherlock.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** I'm surprised you're still here. Thank you for that.

* * *

She wasn't supposed to harp on it, or gradually grow annoyed, but it wasn't out of anger. The fact it wasn't out of anger frustrated her to say the least, since there were other small voices in her head that spoke out of turn, when she most wanted them to crawl away.

_Why?_

Why would Michael – after his long speech about honesty - after forgiving her for mucking up so absolutely - end up lying himself? He wasn't supposed to be a bad bloke – he was the nice man – the one she was about to marry, and in a few months – the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. It was an unusual concept really. She'd found somebody who made her happy, or well, she liked to suppose he did, since she didn't know she could be any happier than what she already was.

Molly stared at the back of his head, trying to keep herself occupied with the muted down telly, and the gossip magazine in her hands, until she tossed the magazine aside and ignored the telly, "Michael," she said tentatively, causing him to turn around from his position on the floor, as he was playing with Toby.

"Yeah?" he said with his earnest-looking face.

He didn't seem to be able to tell lies, but she had always prided herself in being very truthful too.

"Err -," she frowned sitting more upright in the sofa, until she said, "Mary told me you lied about Sherlock signing the papers?"

Michael's smile faded quickly at that and his eyes were cast downwards, as he said with a rather solemn tone, "I should have known."

"Sorry?"

"That it would come out eventually, I suppose – I just hoped we wouldn't need to talk about it."

"Why not?"

Michael looked up at that seating himself besides her on the sofa. She drew her feet away, and he kept a certain distance between him and her. It wasn't the sort of behaviour she was used to from him, so she waited anxiously, as he gave a long sigh, "Isn't it obvious?"

_Not to me_, "No," she said puzzled.

He grinned running his fingers through his ginger locks, "Really? OK, so, I thought long and hard about everything you told about him – about how much you'd helped him, and what he then did – out of _boredom_, you say," he said stopping up, as if he was struggling to find the words.

"Right?" she said hoping he'd go on.

"It's obvious really, quite obvious – no man does that even if he's bored – especially after making all that stupidity go on for ages – nobody does that because they can't find anything else going on – it's obvious that he's in love with you…"

Her brows were raised, all hairs rising on her skin, as she felt herself unsettled at the sheer idea – it was besides itself idiotic, absolutely untrue, and somehow hysterical to think of. She started to giggle rather furiously.

Michael stared at her aghast, as she quickly tried to reassure him, "No – no – no – no – he's not – Sherlock's not – he's not – _never_ -," she blurted out, before finishing lamely with, "You believe that?"

She was grimacing at this point.

"He has to be!" admonished Michael, as she stared at him in disbelief.

"Honestly he isn't – he's never ever shown the least bit of interest-," she said with a soft smile.

"How can he _not_ be?" he said sounding almost angry, as he gestured towards her.

For a second she stared, until she took to hug him around his waist, and leaned to rest her head on his shoulder. He relaxed under her touch, as she calmly said, "Definitively not, and even so – _I_ – wouldn't be interested even if he were. I'm engaged to you, after all."

"You married him though."

"We weren't supposed to – I only wanted to help him. I've always helped him on his cases – I just did a bit more than usual." _That was putting it mildly._

"Oh," said Michael rather shamefacedly chuckling, as he tried to avert her gaze, "You're sure?"

"Yes - very."

His arms grabbed her to him, and she thought it was perhaps time to tell him what she'd gone and done now. Not exactly the most soothing news, perhaps, "So," she said, "Mary and I - are really struggling with the whole wedding planning thing-,"

"I know - I'm sorry – works been murder really with that stupid new client who never really makes up his mind about his own security system. He keeps wanting us to make it even more secure, as he's apparently worried his _brother_ will get in."

Molly gave to laugh, as Michael stood up all of a sudden from the sofa, and out of her grasp, "His brother must be clever," she said glad that the conversation was something entirely different, though it didn't change the fact that it needed to be said.

"He has to be I suppose, but it shouldn't be that tricky keeping some bloke out – anyway – a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please, but – I just want to add-,"

Michael's phone suddenly went off. He groaned as he slipped it out of his trouser pocket, and jammed it against his ear, "Hello – yes – right-," he said mouthing "Sorry," to her, before rolling his eyes over his overbearing client.

"Maybe later," Molly mumbled to herself, as she knew it maybe wasn't the best time to mention that Sherlock was invited to the wedding – and for that matter still her maid of honour.

* * *

"-Apparently he was convinced Sherlock did that because he fancies me," said Molly grinning; however when those words escaped her mouth Mary spilled most of her cappuccino down her shirtfront.

"Bollocks," Mary snapped, as Molly silently handed her some napkins.

Her friend quietly looked on as she tried to dry up her white blouse, but with a shrug Mary said, "Well, right – can't get any better than that – but ok - _so_ – that's weird."

Molly pursed her lips, "Mary – what's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong obviously – I just ruined my blouse, and I am going to meet John later on-," she said hurriedly trying to distract her friend, almost feeling like one of her own students with a poor excuse.

It was obvious by the way Molly was eyeing her that nothing she was going to say would convince her of otherwise, and her silence was certainly not making the issue any more unclear, as Molly said, "Honestly - do you also believe he fancies me?"

_Yes. _

"No," said Mary with such wide eyes that even she felt herself snort in mistrust.

"You're usually such a good liar," Molly said rather seriously.

"It's a bit of an off day really," said Mary with a wry grin, though that didn't change Molly's expression, "OK - so I might have been living under the impression that Sherlock possibly fancies you. Of course that's my take on it. It doesn't mean it is in fact true-," _most likely is bloody true considering what John told me. _

"Ok," said Molly with a slight nod – her brown eyes gazing out into the distance. Mary found herself almost looking to where she was staring.

What did Molly actually feel?

She remembered knowing every single excruciating detail about the man, but those details got fewer and fewer over the years.

"What?" said Mary cautiously, only to find her friend repeat the same word, "What?" only startled, as if she'd interrupted her mid-sentence.

"There's obviously something goin-," she had started.

"He was acting odd," Molly blurted out interrupting her.

"Michael?" she said trying to pretend that was whom she was interested in hearing of.

"Sherlock."

"Oh? When was that? When I was with you on the phone?" she said trying not to seem interested, when she'd practically keeled over with concern the minute Molly had disconnected - only to have John texting Sherlock for details, which were of course dutifully ignored by the man.

"Yeah, he's coming round again – doing cases with Lestrade, and obviously John-,"

"OK, and what kind of strange was he? Since he's sort of that already."

"He was a bit – flustered, really," her friend said with a look of dawning on her features that almost turned anguished. She didn't know what Molly was thinking, but those few glimpses on her face quickly altered themselves.

"It doesn't need to mean anything at all. Could have been something else he was thinking about, you know?" Mary said hoping that it would be some help.

Molly didn't look softened by that particular idea, "I'm so used to seeing what he actually means, when he says something, but lately – I just don't know what he's getting at."

"Oh, really?"

"I know, it's odd - before I could read almost every expression in his face, but now – nothing. I don't even know if I actually like him as a person, I see that he does loads of good, and I think he's amazing. One of the most brilliant people I know, but another part of me – thinks he's a bit of a -," she said wringing a piece of tissue between her hands, her knuckles turning white.

"Bastard," said Mary nodding fervently, "You're not entirely wrong in thinking that, as John repeatedly think that too – and he's living with him - poor man."

"I just don't know how I ever managed to fancy him, or well – _even_ like him."

"So, you don't feel anything about him?"

"I don't know – well – ok – no, I don't," she said with a distant expression, one of a tired woman who'd been through a great deal – and she had been through a lot, things that she obviously didn't feel like putting into words just yet -"Still, I can't imagine my life without him mucking about in the lab, or just bothering me."

Mary smiled; neither could she, as she saw Michael as a rather large barrier to that, "You're sort of friends, though?" she said supposing they'd maintain some sort of relationship.

"Friends who just happen to be married," Molly said with a laugh.

A fact not easily forgotten, but she couldn't help but wonder, "Yes, about that – have you signed the papers, yet?"

"Yes, they're signed - just have to send them off," said Molly happily.

There was a reason Mary asked; that reason was the papers themselves, tucked underneath loads of other files, constantly being pushed around in Molly's flat, or at her work. It was like Molly kept forgetting they actually existed, or perhaps that was just her reading too much into things. She didn't feel like pointing it out though.

"You haven't sent them off?" she said blinking.

"I'm not keen on meeting Karen - after that last meeting, so I'm putting it off for a while. Luckily there's some time left," Molly said, before promptly letting her head drop onto the table with a thud.

"Not so much time, when you think about it, then?" said Mary with a snort.

"No," Molly moaned into the table soon lifting her head up again, "And how far have we gotten exactly?"

Mary sniffed, "Not very far – we've barely decided where to have it – except that place that Sherlock mentioned."

"You mean the ridiculously over-priced _palace_ that's not even near the budget?" said Molly with a grim expression.

"I always thought you'd go for small to be honest."

"I only get married once – mum keeps on telling me," said Molly with a shrug, and Mary wondered if it was her fiancés influence that made that change occur, or her mothers.

It was hard to tell really.

"She doesn't know you're already married though – technically that is – so you're divorced,_ before_ you're actually married."

"Thank you for reminding me," said Molly with a defeated expression, though her eyes promptly widened, as she soon sat up straight in her seat – her features pale.

"What?" said Mary hoping she hadn't hurt her friend in any way.

"Mary," said Molly rather sincerely, her eyes fixed on her face, "I forgot – there's something – I barely got to tell Michael last night, evn. Works been rather, and-," her eyes kept darting behind her head.

When Mary finally turned to have a look - a man was standing in front of her blocking the view to the window.

The man happened to be Sherlock.

* * *

She looked at Molly who bore a nervous expression, before turning again to look at the man who was supposedly _a complete idiot over Molly_ (John's exact words). Even the word hopeless, but she only saw him stand there as coolly as ever. He wasn't exactly spectacularly good at displaying his affection or torment. Not that she supposed that was his intention at being there, then she understood why he was there – _right._

"No," she said loudly.

"Don't get too excited," said Sherlock, the corners of his mouth turning up, as he swiftly found himself an available chair and sat down.

There was something off with sitting between the pair, her eyes switching between Molly and Sherlock, as she didn't know whom to look at. Both weren't exactly looking at each other.

"Are we actually doing something important today?" said Sherlock ending the silence, his expression almost disdainful, as his eyes swept over the half-empty cups of coffee and crumbs on the table.

It didn't exactly show their productivity.

If she'd been told earlier she'd devised a binder.

Mary scowled in return, "Why are you here?" she said looking to Molly, hoping it wasn't another ridiculous situation were Molly would have to lie.

"He's – he's helping," said Molly as if that was an obvious fact, whilst it would have been absolutely ridiculous that Sherlock would willingly want to sit in a coffee shop.

"Really? He's just – _helping_," Mary said annoyed over the fact that John hadn't told her, and disturbed that helping was something Sherlock intended to do.

She had thought he'd rather set fire to the invitations, than see it happen - especially when he was supposed to fancy Molly.

"Yes – _helping_," said Molly awkwardly smiling at the pair of them, while Sherlock only looked slightly bored by the discussion.

Mary wouldn't exactly call the man _in_ love, as his eyes were blatantly trying not to look into Molly's direction.

"You do look like you need all the help you can get," he said glancing at her, until his eyes were rather glued on Molly, shifting however quite quickly to the table instead.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this point – both seemed appropriate really, "Right – you're going with us to the shops to look at wedding dresses and bridal gowns?" said Mary who knew this was what Molly wanted to do, and she could see by the look of utter surprise on Sherlock's face that it wasn't exactly his cup of tea.

"Is it necessary?" he said brows knitted, and face contorted into a rather childish grimace.

"I should have thought of that, really – it's only if you want, but you can come another time if you like - when we're discussing something else," said Molly sounding like she was apologizing to the man.

His sighed, "It's fine," he said stoically, though his rather stony expression softened when he caught Molly's small smile.

Mary tried not to look too pleased, though she found herself suddenly very conflicted – Molly was getting married – to another man.

Sherlock was after all rather late to the party, since Mary wasn't entirely certain if Molly's opinion of him could be improved this late after all. Maybe Michael was the right choice? Maybe she was the only one thinking it was too soon for them to marry? She wasn't certain, though she rather hoped if Sherlock was going to be anything - _he'd better be bloody spectacular_, which would possibly take a while.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **I know, I updated too soon, oh, such a bother, really,_ right?_ Haha. Probably not, also the last author notes were just me joking to myself really - I was convinced no one read those really. You do though - you beautiful magnificent people who take the time to review this silly story of mine trying to comfort me that you read, I know you do - thank you!

Thank you to those who also favourite and follow!

Also **Lono **you became the 300th review, so you can prompt me anything you like! If I hit big numbers, and you're the one who coincidentally ended up as 350th etc - you can prompt me a one-shot (unfortunately I don't count anonymous, can't get hold of you guys, you know). Yes, indeed that's why some one-shots have popped up. Thank you to all who voted for me in the SAMFAS! The fic is nominated in both romance and humor, THANK YOU.

There are several who've asked questions in their reviews, and I can't really answer those, unfortunately enough, but the answers will appear in the fic itself. Some are already in the fic - oh - _oh_ - what do I mean? You'll see. Thank you once again, and if you read all this - you are brilliant and I hope you continue with being so.

* * *

Shopping with Sherlock; wasn't exactly the moment she'd visualized when she and Molly would finally get to be overtly girly laughing at the all-too frilly dresses, possibly trying some for laughs, as it turned much more serious with his presence. The questions that streamed from his mouth were endless fired off rapidly at Molly who blinked furiously in return, before managing to give him answers, "Where?" "When?" "What do you want exactly?" Questions they weren't entirely certain of to begin with, but that her friend managed to her own surprise to answer. Mary supposed it was instinct he was relying on really, as he was listening to every answer rather pensively, while they walked towards one of the shops he'd located nearby on his phone that he deemed _appropriate._

"You don't need to write it down?" Mary said astonished, but he only shook his head in reply.

He could apparently remember everything Molly said without taking notes, rather beneficial really. Molly seemed to be aware of this fact, as she only smiled at her in return to his aloofness regarding a trait most men would want to have (especially during quarrels).

They soon stood outside a pair of glass doors set upon an old building with two small trees in pots filled with brimstone. It was kept clean on the outside, the pavement with not one spot of used gum, or discarded paper – there was even a pristine looking red carpet that they stood on.

Mary eyed Molly who didn't look particularly heartened by this kind of opulence – but they followed Sherlock in anyway, since he held the door open for them. It wasn't like they could protest then; the least they could do was browse.

They stepped in eyeing the rather decadent interior that exploited the old structure of the building, allowing red bricks to be evident on the walls, mixing it with white minimalism. It couldn't be entirely white in doors – after all they were selling wedding gowns – there were even model-thin women wandering around with nametags looking stylish themselves in un-wrinkled marine suits.

One of the women - a blonde popped up at their side, "Do you need any help, sir?" she said to Sherlock ignoring the pair of them behind him.

It wasn't like they were going to buy anything, but she had hoped they'd not ignore her and Molly – especially considering the fact that Sherlock was a man.

Though, when the woman's grey eyes took in her stained blouse she knew she wouldn't want any help from her.

"No," said Sherlock not even looking at the woman, who almost seemed to be trying to flirt with the way she kept smiling at him.

He was in a bridal-shop – he wasn't supposed to be flirted with in a _bridal shop_, even Molly seemed briefly annoyed.

The woman however persisted, "Are you certain, sir?" Clearly thinking that_ they_ weren't any judges to be had on good taste.

Mary found herself crossing her arms.

"We can find what we need, thank you," said Sherlock dismissing the woman, who's toothy smile dropped, as she walked off.

"We can't shop here, can we?" said Molly who was clinging a great deal to her handbag, as if she'd offend anyone by coming in contact with anything in the shop.

"Yes, we can," said Sherlock without a hint of unease, taking to wander ahead of them, as they followed him nervously.

"More like browsing," said Mary under her breath, as she felt like talking loudly wasn't perhaps the best idea in this particular store.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, though he was soon distracted by the rows of long dresses that were on racks with every shade of white possible. It was rather remarkable to witness how many shades there in fact were of _white_ – or dresses, for that matter.

The most expensive ones were of course on the mannequins that were on top of podiums, but Sherlock only gave those brief glances, "You can't exactly expect me to believe you'll find a dress just like that, do you?" said Mary while Sherlock silently walked on.

"I will - if the collection is suitable enough," said Sherlock casting his eyes at the help for a brief second, until he continued with his browsing.

Molly was momentarily distracted however, her hands hanging uneasily at her sides, as she stared about her, "That's – it's a lot," she said looking rather diminished.

It was perhaps daunting to be faced with such a reality.

"They are just dresses, Molly," said Sherlock, as Mary had intended to open her mouth to comfort her, "Garments – for – an important day, but not the last day of your existence."

Mary raised her brows.

"I'm fine," said Molly looking a bit more calm, "Ok, maybe a bit – not fine - but it's just _dresses_ – right – anyway – we're probably going to hundreds-," but Molly promptly shut up the minute Sherlock held a dress before her.

Her eyes practically glazed over, as she open mouthed stared at what was absolutely enchanting in her eyes.

Not only hers, as Mary was riveted herself, besides mildly disgusted that Sherlock had found one already.

"Try it – it's your size," said Sherlock his voice emotionless.

Molly bit her lip, her eyes darting from his face, then to the dress in his hands, slowly prying it out of his clasp – tenderly holding it in her hands.

"But it's – it's probably too much-," she said with a shake of her head.

"Try it," he said with such conviction that Molly looked to Mary guiltily.

"Ok," said Molly with a swallow hesitantly asking help from one of the women working there.

Mary noticed that he wasn't entirely aware of her presence; he seemed rather lost there he stood after having just found in mere minutes what would most likely be perfect for Molly.

She was slightly irritated by that fact, besides being thoroughly amused, "You love her," she whispered.

Sherlock's head whirled towards her, his expression reproachful – "It wasn't a question," she said, when he made no comment on the fact.

"John told you," he said clearly annoyed.

"He said some things, yes, but it's a bit difficult not to notice, really."

Sherlock grimaced, "She hasn't."

"I think she is seeing what she wants to be seeing right now, and anyway if it is any comfort – Molly hasn't been – _well_ – herself in a while," she said thoughtfully considering her friend who'd been acting a bit off ever since Sherlock re-appeared from the dead.

"What does that _mean_ exactly?" he said sounding rather tired.

Mary ignored his question, "Go and see if it fits her – I'll try to see if I can find some cheap gowns for _us _bridesmaids – what's your size?" she said good-naturedly.

"Funny," he said with a bored expression.

"I do hope you'll have time to help me whenever I get married?" she said with a laugh.

Sherlock smirked, "I think I'll be busy that day, Mary," he said stepping off, leaving her puzzled at his comment.

* * *

She was struggling. It wasn't exactly something one could zip oneself into, with its probably sewn-by-blind-nuns silk buttons at the back. The woman who assisted her into the dressing room hadn't been particularly helpful, despite her easy smile, as she most likely expected her to try it, before throwing it aside. She couldn't imagine even putting it on without making it filthy at this point. The fact that she wasn't going to buy the dress made the whole point of asking for help completely pointless, so she'd tried back to front – only ending up with her being horribly aware that she might make a tear in the fabric.

That would be rather _not_ good.

The dress didn't even have a price tag, and she could only imagine the sum that she'd pay if she accidentally ruined it, _"Sorry about that, err."_

She almost started to perspire there she stood under the fluorescent lighting, listening to Norah Jones playing in the background, as she almost tugged the thing off, but luckily there was someone shuffling on the other side of the withdrawn curtains.

It was now or never, really.

"Sorry – could you – could you please help me – I'm having some problems with the back of the dress?" she said turning round to face the mirror, as the curtains slipped open. Instead of a woman's face, her eyes met with Sherlock's steely blue-green ones in the mirror, "Oh - it's you," she said gasping feeling suddenly unsure of herself.

"She was - busy," he said, as she stood there rather quietly with her bare back to his – it wasn't exactly a dress you could wear your undergarments in.

He didn't say anything, neither did she, and they stood there for a minute with her back visible to him. _Right._

"Right – ok – so – err -," she started to say wondering if she should send him off to fetch Mary, but he soon stood closer to her back, his breath tickling the back of her neck.

Molly almost jumped in surprise, when his fingertips touched her bare skin, as he slowly started to button her in – his fingers accidentally touching the small of her back.

She wasn't entirely prepared with him being this docile, and her this jumpy. She cast her eyes towards the floor, reluctantly pulling them up again meeting his stare in the mirror. She sighed over her own silliness.

His eyes returned rather quickly to the buttoning however, slowly wrapping her inside the lovely white dress – her hair caught up in one of the latches, but he leisurely swept her hair gently to the front, his hands grazing her neck. His touch was very careful, like she was delicate, and she felt rather like a china doll the way he was handling her.

He exhaled behind her rather deeply causing the tiny hairs on her back to rise, for now she didn't dare look into the mirror to see his face.

She was being stupid – he was just helping her, and there was nothing more to it. Why did she feel so strange, though? Just like – _oh_ – she rather not bring_ that_ up again, anyway it wasn't like his feelings would change her being engaged, but she found herself flustered nonetheless.

After all she had fancied him once, and he was buttoning her in – not exactly the passionate daydreams she'd had regularly when she had first met him.

Him dressing her up, rather than down – _not the time_ – "There," he said stepping backwards.

Her eyes met his unreadable ones for a second looking up, as he drew the curtains hurriedly closed at that; in such a state she almost thought he'd ripped them off. She gaped slightly fidgeting, before she breathed out slowly with her heart pounding, as she properly looked at her reflection.

It was achingly perfect, with a hem that was just the right length – a perfect pinch at the waist – there was even a shade of soft pink in it.

She could never imagine herself in something classically white, or particularly cake-like, like her mother's old dress. Often she'd find that wedding dresses went too far, or went too plain, but this dabbled in both realms. This was of course _like a dream_, too perfect to actually be worn by her, as it was just too good.

She couldn't afford this, at all.

"Does it fit?" said the voice of Mary on the other side.

Molly felt suddenly relieved by her presence.

"It's lovely," said Molly pulling open the curtains to witness her friend turning teary-eyed at the sight of her.

"Oh my god – you look – oh – you just – you're – _Molly_ – you're getting married," said Mary taking to glare when some of the staff stared at her exclamation of joy, "Do – you – how - how much is it?"

"Too much," said Molly shaking her head. It was a good starting point though; at least she knew what she wanted from a dress, as looking after similar cheaper ones would be the best.

"No need whispering what they already know," said Mary rather icily her eyes turning into slits at the woman in the changing room who was pretending not to overhear.

Sherlock who hadn't been on the outside suddenly appeared again, giving Molly a brief look from head to toe, "Good," he said, "Consider it done."

He seemed to suddenly be on his way to leave, which caused both women to stare after him in wonder, "What?" they said in unison.

Sherlock stopped in his stride, turning around at them with a raised brow, "It's your something new," he announced effortlessly.

"New?" said Molly flushed, "What do you mean _new_?"

Sherlock looked at her like she was being stupid, "Isn't that how the old saying goes? Something old - _new_ - borrowed – blue?" he said in what sounded like a talking-to, than anything else.

She was very aware of that saying, everyone was aware of it, but it didn't mean he was to go about buying her a wedding dress!

"You didn't-," she said horrified stepping out of the changing room passing Mary who started to laugh rather hysterically.

"I have," he said as if it was obvious.

"Sherlock," said Molly half-exasperated, "We could have found one that looked similar there's no need to-,"

"You'll have enough money for the venue," he said backing away from her slowly with a confident expression, as if knowing she'd admit she was defeated.

He was right of course.

"But-," she said not giving in without a fight.

"Frankly, it's already been paid for and I don't see any use of it. Do take it off my hands - Molly, but now – I have a client I need to see. I'll let you sort out of the rest of the bridal gowns, and you don't need to go at such lengths with those, I assume. They will look dreadful besides _that_ anyway," he said striding away without another word, as one of the women in the shop appeared by their side more agreeable than before, "Do you want it wrapped, Miss Hooper?"

* * *

He was sat in the taxi feeling – _well _- he didn't know what he exactly felt on the subject matter, but certainly a great deal that he could not put into words, no matter how much his mind turned it on its head.

He would need an eight – possibly a nine to manage to captivate him at all, as he hoped it would – to distract him properly. Though Sherlock's phone went off – a text – he brought it up in his gloved hands, and stared mutedly.

_Thank you x - M_

His expression was pained, as he roughly pocketed his phone, while the taxi drove on. She had looked like no woman could ever look bearing such a dress - _undeniably beautiful_ - a fact that hurt, as much as it delighted him.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** I was supposed to save this for later this week, but I couldn't help myself. I must get myself a Beta at this point to slow down the process. Hopefully a very strict person with fantastic eyesight, since I have neither. This is more or less the reward to those who've reviewed and favourited. I adore you all and would hand you a napkin if I could. I didn't want to make people cry, it's usually not me thing - at all. Some of you are about to get some answers, most likely with loads of questions to follow those answers, most likely. I hope you enjoy, since I'm usually never this fast.

* * *

He had done some things throughout the years that he did not look upon with pride, especially concerning Molly. Mary might have addressed her friend's sudden change of behaviour after his return from the dead, but he knew with a heavy heart why that was.

Sherlock wished he could have taken his actions back of course, as he knew now that he had been slowly struggling with his own budding realization, unfortunately the circumstances had made him retaliate like a frightened animal before fleeing.

If anyone was an idiot it was he and not Michael.

* * *

She'd been tossing and turning repeatedly in bed that night, replaying his face in her head, which caused her to throw away her pillow in the end.

Molly had ever only briefly mentioned it.

She liked to believe it wasn't significant really that Sherlock had lived with her for three years on and off. She had told Michael that he came and went when he was supposedly _dead_ - but she never gave him, or anyone for that matter the full details on the subject.

She had almost not allowed herself to think about it.

He didn't come and go, as much as he stayed for weeks on end – back when she'd overanalyse everything, _"You do count."_ Those were the days she cared so much, worrying herself almost sick when he disappeared off to do what he needed to bring Moriarty's collective down. The days where she carried his secrets for him, lying to everyone, just so they'd be safe. She didn't even know how safe she was, or not, but she hadn't cared for her own wellbeing. Then one day, after having gotten so used to the routine of having him there, having him seem so much warmer than she was used to, telling her for once his feelings regarding the battle it was for him to hide away – _he left. _

No note, no text – not a single word was given, and then five months later; he was alive - he was Sherlock Holmes again. It would have been fine, but he never acknowledged her helping him – or apologized. He seemed to pretend like everything was as it was right before it had all happened.

That had torn her apart in every way imaginable.

Those five months of not knowing whether he was alive or dead had hardened her in such a way, that every thought turning to him was fuelled with anger, even if she knew somehow he was keeping her safe, yet he never said anything about it when he returned.

Their small domestic life with her spending most of her time with him was ignored - brushed aside like nothing - and so she knew – she was perhaps just another pawn, like she'd been with Jim. Of course he'd take advantage - for she wouldn't ask questions, she wouldn't say no, and then luckily she met Michael finding herself happy for once.

Then Sherlock had denied her that happiness; even now he was somehow doing it with those eyes of his that looked haunted. Molly turned the lamp on her nightstand on, settling herself upright in bed – was this his way of trying to make her not marry Michael? Because he thought Michael was rubbish, and would distract her from assisting him?

She didn't know.

A small part of her wished to believe he was being sincere, but then again she'd wished that when he had stayed with her.

Molly had believed that there was more to it, that all of what happened meant something in the end – that he'd be different towards her when the time came, but he hadn't.

He'd been exactly the same, trying to flatter her so she'd work with him, and when it became apparent that there was no proper change – she had shed many tears. She didn't want to waste another she told herself, as a lone tear slipped out of her eye, causing her to turn off the lamp again to lie down on her bed.

He had left her, and for her – he hadn't really returned.

Of course she couldn't ignore the way he was being, resurfacing in a way, that she tried her best to ignore, but she could see them being friendlier at least. She could see him be many things really, but in love with her – no, _no_ he wasn't. Her own feelings had been burrowed so deep, that she was never quite sure what she now felt herself, and of course it was simple to say that she saw them not as friends. But she remembered too well that she had loved him – why she'd loved him too. She didn't want Mary to tell her more about what she thought of his feelings, as she knew that would certainly awaken hers.

She was engaged - she was getting married - and she needed to let that go. She couldn't still be in love with him anyway, "_No_," she said whispering it repeatedly into her mattress. Molly's eyes however caught sight of her something _new_ hanging inside a plastic bag outside of her closet, "Oh God." However much her mind told her that it was illogical to have him help her with her wedding - she found she couldn't.

He had not once brought it up himself, the one thing that if she were questioned upon she would flatly deny, but in the state she was in – if someone asked her now if anything had ever happened between the pair of them – she would say, _"Yes."_

* * *

_Almost two years ago_

She'd been trying to get into the rubbish book for the last half hour, finding herself groaning every time words were used again and again, as the author definitively needed a dictionary. Molly felt herself become more purse-lipped by the second; the further she got into the book.

_Bad_ - that's what it was – every shade of terrible really – not the definition of erotic, and she couldn't believe she was openly reading the soft paperback on the comfort of her sofa. Since the likelihood of Sherlock stepping in while she was scrutinizing the pages was quite large. He did enter at rather inconvenient times, either while she was in the shower, or dancing to herself in the kitchen in her nightie.

He always seemed to walk in while she wasn't properly dressed too, and she should of course have learnt to be prepared, but she couldn't always be on her guard in her own flat after all.

It was _her_ flat, but it didn't stop her eyes from flickering towards the door in sheer dread. She could of course fling the book aside, but he'd be drawn to the cover, and she'd rather he not be. Feigning complete ignorance would be a better alternative anyway, and so she read on snuggling deeper under her blanket, as the rain splattered on her windows.

It had been a dreadful grey day at best – windy, and with the occasional drum of thunder. She didn't bother with going out exactly, as she had the day off, which was a relief really. She hadn't been properly on her own in ages.

Sherlock had been making such a mess lately experimenting with her personal items that she was somewhat pleased he had to go out for a bit, however long that would be, but of course it was now past midnight. Every time he ended up being longer out than necessary she'd find herself lying awake, which was why she'd given up going to bed early. For once she tried to keep her eyes glued on the book Mary had borrowed her instead.

The book wasn't a good distraction though, despite its supposed suggestive theme. Molly snorted while she tried to read on, only to hear the front door thumped open.

She swiftly threw the book aside out of sheer instinct, knowing fully well it could only be him, but when she saw him - all that worry over the book evaporated.

He was leaning his hand on the doorknob looking soaked to the bone, his coat seemed heavy, so did the rest of his clothes, even his curly dark hair was flattened by the rain, as long tendrils were practically glued to his forehead.

"Are you alright?" she said startled.

His expression was worn, almost unreadable, as he released the doorknob staggering into her flat. He barely seemed to manage to shut the door closed, as he unconvincingly bit back, "Yes," in a rather hoarse voice.

He'd usually never make such an entrance; ordinarily he'd slip inside so carefully that's she'd shriek in fright over his sudden unexpected presence. There was something terribly wrong with him. She was quick on her feet intending to check him for injuries; regularly he'd appear with a bruise or a cut lip, but nothing to worry about. Perhaps tonight would be different.

The minute she neared him he snapped, "I'm fine." His hand was held out demonstratively, so she would keep her distance.

"Are you sure?" she said not believing him for a second, especially when he seemed to lose his balance – at which she ignored his previous command throwing his arm over her shoulder to keep him up.

He was surprisingly heavy, though he did not protest, but it was quite clear by the look of abject irritation on his face that he wasn't happy about it.

He gave a great sigh, while she attempted to move towards the sofa with him, but he would not budge. She looked up at his face, surprised to find his brows knitted at her. He was staring at her unblinkingly, continuing with his ragged breath, which made her rather nervous.

"What's happened?" she said breaking the silence, but he only shook his head in reply.

Though the answer to that came easily in the air that surrounded the man, as his breath reeked of alcohol and faded cigarettes, almost hidden under the smell of rain in his clothing, which might have explained his reluctance to divulge another word.

"Have – have you been drinking?" she said trying not to sound too worried, as she was. She knew he had dabbled in darker substances before, but obviously something had gone rather wrong to initiate this to begin with.

"It was a substitute," he said.

_It could have been worse_ is what he meant obviously, and that did not in any way make her feel any easier about it all. Unlike regular people he brought himself to such a state that he was unable to keep himself level, which obviously could not compare to what the _actual_ drugs would do.

He was still leaning on her, almost causing her pain, as she hurriedly said, "Oh – right, sorry – do you need a lie down?"

What followed that happened in such a speed that she squealed in surprise; for he tore himself out of her grip, until he stood quite solid on his own feet.

Molly half-smiled at that, since he was apparently rather determined to stand alone, but she was surprised to find his hands on her face all of a sudden – his palms tenderly holding her cheeks.

Her face naturally heated up at the contact with his cold hands, while his thumb slowly grazed her bottom lip, "What's – what's wrong?" she stuttered, as he leaned closer – beads of water sliding from his hair to her forehead.

He was clearly out of sorts, or maybe not for the reason she thought. She didn't dare hope, even if the state he was in was certainly seeking company, "Sherlock?" she said in a small voice trying to revive him, but his eyes only flitted over her face puzzled.

He continued to sweep his eyes over her rather uncertainly, a sudden tug upwards in the corner of his mouth, as his gaze landed on her lips. She only held herself still, almost not able to breathe in wonder, whereas he slowly swallowed. They only stood there breathing, his hands still on her face that had started to prickle, as he certainly made her feel nervous.

She had never seen him like this – _so_ – she had no proper word for it, and intended to try to step out of his grip. The minute she started to shift his mouth landed on hers with such ferocity that she could only gasp in response. Her gasp fuelled him instead of scaring him off, as he quickly brought his hands down to her waist gripping her closer to him. There was no uncertainty in the kiss, only need – hunger even, as he pressed upon her making her cling to him to keep her balance.

The rational part of her mind wanted her to shove him away – to talk – to discuss what he was doing, but her mind went blissfully blank at the contact of his full lips. His mouth coerced hers open causing her to let out a breathy moan, as he deepened the kiss making her feel giddy.

With all reason gone she started to reciprocate by pulling him closer by his lapels, her hands soon wrapped in his sodden curls.

He started to force her to go backwards towards the sofa, arms still tangled around her, as he pushed her down. It was a collective of limbs clashing together as they lay down; her legs half wrapped around his waist. The kiss only intensified from that, as he teased her with his hands playfully slipping underneath her top caressing the top of her brassiere, skirting carefully down to the buttons of her trousers.

He smirked pulling back from her swollen lips, soon direction his attention to her neck that he bit lightly into causing her to sigh in pleasure, while droplets of water drizzled on top of her.

It was the apparent bulge in his trousers that awoke her, even if her body tried to argue, while he left small trails of kisses on her neck.

"Sherlock," she said interrupting the moment that she had long dreamt of, for at the pronouncement of his name he stilled his administrations on her neck.

His entire body froze on top of her; she could see the furrows in his brows, as he took to breathe deeply several times, whether out of frustration or relief she did not know. Then he pushed himself entirely off her, leaving her cold on the sofa.

Sherlock looked upon her with a stony expression on his face, like he was trying to conceal his thoughts from her. He shook his head slightly, as if he was trying to remove dirt from his clothes, while she slowly sat up in the sofa.

The face she was met with was neither filled with regret, nor with confusion – no – it was filled with venom. She had never seen him like this, perhaps worse than when he asked for her help. Though his face was not lost asking for guidance in the dark – it was not at all alike that man she'd seen.

Sherlock would never surrender to such acts if something bad hadn't happened, for not once had he touched her like that, and she felt her skin almost tender with the contact.

She knew they'd be fine if they only could sit and talk, so he could calm himself down, to relieve himself in a way without using her, for this was definitively not a thing he'd do soberly - yet the look in his eyes made her unsure of what to expect from him.

He started pacing, his head constantly whipping towards her, as his hands were bunched into fists. Sherlock didn't say anything, though she could see that he had much to shine light on, because he soon stopped. With his lip curled upwards he said, "Aren't you going to ask me if I'm OK, again?"

She blinked, "Sorry?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, turning silent once more, but it was obviously not the end of his rant, "You always keep asking that question, when the answer should be quite obvious to you."

_He's not really angry with me_, she thought biting her lip, as she sat there feeling agitated. It was obvious that it wasn't her that was the problem at the moment, and she didn't want him to do something he'd surely regret.

"Isn't this what you've always wanted? Isn't this why you have been watching me from the corner of your eye? Why you have been living with me, to begin with?" he said rather heatedly.

She could hardly breathe, while he stood there accusing her for wanting him. Molly tried to blink away the tears that were threatening to spill out of her eyes out of the sheer coldness in his voice.

"Isn't it?" he said raising his brow in distain.

"Why are you – you're not OK - please don't – Sher -," she said standing up in anguish, but he only scoffed at her removing himself from her vicinity by heading to her front door.

It was with a cold expression that he opened the door, "I am fine," he said with a sneer, promptly storming out. He slammed the door so roughly behind him that a picture frame fell to the floor.

Molly stood there for a second in defeated silence, till her feet sprang into action bringing her out of the flat crying his name out in the rain. She ignored all the curious people in the street, trying to catch him in his stride, but unfortunately in the end it was only her alone on the pavement amidst the rain that blended with her salty tears.

_He was gone. _


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Thanks to my lovely beta AussieMaelstrom! Thanks to those who follow, favourite and review! You're all very lovely. Sorry for the later than expected update, but I needed a tiny break.

* * *

_Alive._ She'd mouthed the words staring at her from the front page of a newspaper, that's how she got wind of it, though the word travelled quickly through Bart's, before heads turned carefully round to her whispering about her probable involvement. She didn't lessen the rumours or disagree with them, she just waited for him to make his presence known, and of course she dropped her tray with utensils the minute he entered confidently into _his domain._ Molly had stood there, half-fear and half-hope awaiting his next words, which were chastising her on her reaction, but he did not say anything else – no throwaway remark to shackle anyone's stupor – no apology.

All hope was extinguished, and she saw herself like an object to him. An object to be used, and nothing more, which one could safely say cut her deeply. She was riddled in the end with scars that distorted any expression she saw in his face. He was practically unreadable to her, and so she gave up looking.

For above all things she didn't want to see him.

Not really.

* * *

_Cracks;_ he knew John could see them, the man paid heed to every detail regarding him, though he was trying his best to shoulder the attitude of "fine" or "good", though those replies did not soothe his friend in any way. _Fine_ was not pretending to be puzzled by every case that came his way, and_ good_ was not accepting the cases, despite them being the essence of dull in his mind. Apparently keeping himself occupied did not bode well in John's eyes, since when he'd finish the case in less than a half hour, pushing towards another with equal intensity it just made John seem even more worried. He did not like what he saw in the corner of his eye, as he ate, as he slept, as he tried to do what anyone else would do. He was _trying_ to move on, it was insufferable to have to hear the conversations that John had on the phone with Mary, or with Mrs Hudson. He was eating – he was sleeping – he was functioning in every way possible – wasn't that what fine was? Sherlock, however, knew it was impossible to move on from something that never really happened, but it was essential he keep his mind occupied for his thoughts would scatter if he ever sat still.

The thoughts would bring him to her, and they would dig so deep that he would not be able to burrow out of it. He was tearing at the seams, and through the cracks she would pour out, hurting him, with any inhale and exhale he dare have.

He had seen her hurt, and he had done nothing.

He had caused that hurt, and he had done nothing to ease it.

He knew the truth, whatever that truth was, the truth that did not make him at all worthy of receiving any pity bestowed on him by his friend.

It was knowledge that had him act that night.

Knowledge that turned his blood hot with fury towards the one person who had persisted keeping him sane, to the one person who would not leave him, and to the one person he had sought when he needed someone the most. He had turned her against him by his own stupidity, by his own hand, and he knew he could have played it differently. He knew he could have spoken the words, but he did not want to worry her. He did not want her to know, he wanted her to loathe him, to want to send him away, as that very night, that very moment – he thought that it would be the last time he ever breathed before her. That it too could have been the last time he would see blood rush to her cheeks. He wanted her alive, he needed her alive, and his life wasn't important.

He had blamed her, it was her fault he had to leave, her fault entirely, and it was only her feelings on the line – not his, but when he saw her standing there, droplets tearing down upon her skin, and the hollowness in her eyes ever so present; he knew all the blame lay with him. He was the one who got her involved, he was the one who risked her life, and she deserved so much more. He knew what John would say – _apologise_ – but the words had not poured out from his mouth when he finally saw her. Instead barriers were put up. He knew that his actions would be questioned – by her – by everyone, and he didn't want to understand that all of his actions, all of his doings would have led him down this path no matter how hard he tried to steer away from it. He was in_ it_, before he had ever known of it. Like any other man, but he was no ordinary man. Like she was no ordinary woman.

She deserved to be happy; for once he would give that to her, since for once he could.

He was reaping his reward for being ignorant, for not understanding his own wants, or desires.

Sherlock supposed that the way he acted, so very closely resembling a machine turning on at day, and turning off at night was the reason his friend exclaimed worry. John would question him about the wedding dress; he would ask him why he did not help them anymore, why he suddenly wasn't interested in anything concerning Molly. "You've been sending me to Bart's instead – why?"

Sherlock never needed to be there, he never needed to ask her for her favours, for she would always give them willingly, but he didn't deserve those. He was so caught up in his own little world that he never saw, he never saw until it was too late. Every thought that turned to her was pained, for he knew that she would be – married. The woman he…he couldn't even allow himself to think it – for it would make it impossible to take back.

He could not take back what was already done, what he had done, he could only put things right, but he would not revert to his old self – she would never look at him the same. He had broken her, as he had ripped himself apart. It wasn't surprising that one night, after powering through for so long he finally _split apart._

Blood rushed through his head while he ripped on his coat, his scarf dangling around his neck, as John's words floated through his ear and out again. He could only care for one thing – he would see her – he had to see her. He darted down the steps – every single nerve in him trembling, as he could only hear the odd throbbing of his heart. He would tell her the truth, she would finally know why, and he would finally apologize.

It was irrational.

It was selfish.

It was entirely him.

The chances of success were none, and he knew by the time he'd get there by taxi in less than ten minutes that he wouldn't be greeted well. She wouldn't be happy, and she would certainly not be overjoyed by his confession. But he didn't know what to say, what to confess, yet the adrenaline rushed throughout his body giving him courage where courage had been lacking. Upon his arm being raised in the air to hail a taxi – a sleek black car slowed down besides him.

Sherlock inhaled, his lungs taken in air that he'd barely managed to process with the way he was feeling, "WHAT?" he spat the minute the car window rolled down revealing his brother. Of course it was his idiotic brother placed to break his resolve in seeing her, but he was not to be challenged in his intention.

Mycroft was sat inside raising a brow at him, "Not another midnight run, then?" he smiled pleasantly.

"I am rather busy, Mycroft," he said scathingly aggravated by the fact that his own brother was derailing him. He hoped it was at all relevant and important, but it didn't matter – it wasn't as if minutes would change his intended destination.

"That would lead you to your wife's flat, I presume?" his brother said looking rather thoughtful at that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to stay rooted, as he felt less inclined than usual to listen to his brother, not that he ever did feel tempted to listen to him at all attentively, "I suggest you not calling her that."

"She is still your wife at the moment according to my files, so I wouldn't worry about overstepping your welcome."

"Why are you here?" he said with furrowed brows.

"Curiously not to join you for your walk – do get in-," said Mycroft opening the door, while Sherlock with a scowl sat himself beside him.

His expression relaxed however, for he could see there was something obviously wrong, but it didn't need - "No alcohol this time?" he said surveying the bare interior of the vehicle.

"Better not – best to keep those things at a minimum."

The car wasn't moving either, so it certainly wasn't a case, or a long conversation. Mycroft always felt like taking his business matters to ridiculous spots to prove a theatrical point, it was obvious that with doing less he was showing how serious the problem at hand in fact was.

"Why?" he said carefully eyeing his brother who was avoiding his eye.

Mycroft pursed his lips - a look Sherlock felt was always followed with a thorough chastising from him. His brother frowned like he'd swallowed something unpleasant, "Mummy knows."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Thank you beta _AussieMaelstrom_, for telling me when to stop, and generally having patience.

* * *

He liked to think for a minute he'd been sensible wanting to meet her in the middle of the night to confess, but the second he looked up at the building seeing only the dim light inside the flat he knew she wasn't home. It did not stop from him from entering the building, walking up the familiar steps, until he stood outside the door - his shoes threading onto the "welcome mat". He wasn't welcome, he knew that, and there was certainly no point to be standing there with ragged breath either, as he put his palm upon the door touching the wood for a second.

Sherlock hadn't been there since that night, there had been no occasions for it, no moments for him to walk in on, no purpose for him to be there, really, and there was certainly none now. The desire that had coursed through him the minute he left Mycroft were certainly diminished now, as there would only be one place she'd be at the moment – at Michael's.

His brother had divulged the fact that he'd contributed in keeping Michael busy, which didn't exactly make Sherlock anything but annoyed by his interference, though how secretly pleased he was. Nevertheless, the fact that Molly wasn't home now, was probably to steal a single moment with her fiancé who had no time for her otherwise, and that was certainly no comfort.

He tore his hand away from the door, "Idiot," he said to himself, his feet soon taking to run down the steps, only to stop when he heard the soft whining sound that came from the flat. Sherlock turned around surprised, as the sound strengthened into loud mewling that now had started clawing at the front door.

The blasted cat recognised his voice obviously, and he found himself smirking, rather pleased over that fact. He had hated that cat, when he first stepped into her flat for shelter. It persisted in trying to sit on his things, whether it was his laptop or his lap, though the latter was a great deal more convenient.

Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his coat, bringing forth the one object he wasn't entirely certain he still had, but there he was turning the spare key in his fingers. He slipped it in the door- half-surprised that she hadn't changed the locks- and got inside. Toby was soon mewing by his ankles, circling around him with such speed and ferocity, as he started to purr.

"Feeling neglected then?" he said, while the cat continued to hang about him, until he finally managed to shut the door behind him softly, before heading towards the kitchen cupboard to fetch a tin of cat food.

He felt like being busy, for he was certainly not a welcomed guest in this flat, especially when she wasn't around, and he barely dared taking a proper look about, as he would see signs of her fiancé having been there, or her for that matter.

He got the tin promptly placing it on the floor, while the cat Toby sprang upon it clearly delighted over the extra feeding. Sherlock supposed that was why he recalled him at all really; as he'd been quite careless with the amount of tuna he gave him. Molly had despaired over the fact that her cat had certainly grown, when he'd stayed, but he'd only said it was her imagination.

He had only done it so the cat wouldn't paw at him so much, when she wasn't around. Toby had the sense of being much more annoying without his owner present, even taking to practically screeching in terror if he took a shower in Molly's flat.

Sherlock finally allowed himself a look, finding that not much had changed really, a few pot plants looked less kept than usual, several books were laying about, but seemed forgotten. There were a scandalous amount of bridal magazines on the coffee table in front of the sofa, but not much to remark.

Everything was still the same, the only real difference in the room was him, for he found himself staring longer than needed taking everything in - knowing very well that he was trespassing at best - but he excused himself for it, after all - his mother knew.

His mother knew he'd been married, and it was enough to make his skin crawl at the idea. Mycroft had handed him a cigarette a second after his announcement, which he hastened to light inside the car to his brother's annoyance, but Mycroft did not make any scandalized remarks on the subject.

Instead he had explained the whole situation to him, which had forced him to divulge as to why Sherlock had suddenly felt the need to buy a wedding dress for a woman. He wasn't pleased that his mother knew, and he was certainly not at all comforted by the fact that his brother understood any of it either.

He had hoped it would go undetected, but he should have known that considering the high circles his mother moved in, it wasn't surprising she kept an eye open if either of her sons were ever going to step into a bridal shop.

Their mother had always lived on the hope that at least one of them would go through matrimony, and now she was certainly not pleased over the fact that she was kept in the dark that one had. This would have to be altered of course, so while he swept up the empty tin of cat food from the now distracted cat he brought up his phone –

_When is the next meeting? - SH _

Molly wouldn't answer before the morning, but he was going to do this – on his terms not his mothers, he thought, before stepping out of the flat he was guaranteed not to set eyes upon again. For, he was certain no Molly Hooper would be living there by next year.

* * *

Molly had always assumed that all of her wants would come naturally, that she would know off the bat what she hoped for, but that was wishful thinking obviously. Instead she found herself throwing aside bridal magazines with a flurry of aggravation, though she knew what was bothering her really.

She hadn't exactly informed Michael of Sherlock helping her – or – of him buying the wedding dress.

The whole concept was so foreign to her that she almost thought she imagined it, and it certainly felt that way when Sherlock suddenly stopped turning up to their meetings.

He gave no word – but she hadn't heard anything from him since he'd bought the dress. He hadn't shown up at Bart's either, which made her wonder since John's blog was drowning in new cases almost every day.

It wasn't exactly surprising, but it made her a bit startled to find them doing the domestic approach. She'd always thought they'd take the glamorous over-complicated ones, but nowadays everything was a ten, apparently.

Mary suggested that maybe he'd been scared off, which she didn't find entirely unlikely. He hadn't exactly been keen when they'd mentioned shopping to begin with, but now things were merrily being planned after all.

They were planning a wedding with about two hundred people.

_Two hundred_.

The sheer number made her stomach drop, giving her a headache, just as much as her mulling over Sherlock's purchase.

She had enough with thinking of how to tell Michael about his involvement, but the fact that Sherlock wasn't showing up was certainly buying her time. Though she couldn't exactly put off telling Michael that she'd re-invited him to the actual ceremony itself, after all, Sherlock was to stand by her side along with the rest of her bridesmaids.

The sole imagery that was conjured up on that thought made her feel dizzy really, as she didn't feel it right of him to stand there, but she couldn't imagine him sitting down with the other guests either. At this rate he'd probably not appear at all, since he seemed too busy anyway. In some ways it was a relief, but it didn't exactly make her or Mary any better at the planning bit.

Mary had suggested bringing the other bridesmaids in on it, but Molly knew that some of them already had binders filled to the brim with ridiculous ideas – that prompted the pair of them to settle down with their own binder filling it with all kinds of things they loathed, while cackling loudly sharing a bottle of wine. Molly had ended up spending the night at Mary's, since she could barely stand without wobbling, only to find herself woken up by her phone vibrating.

"Who the bloody hell is texting you in the middle of the night?" muttered Mary out of the corner of her mouth, still fully clothed, as the pair of them lay in her bed.

_When's the next meeting? – SH_

"Sher-lock," she said, only to have Mary sit upright in the bed peering over her shoulder.

"What does it say?" she said squinting at the screen.

"He's just asking about the planning meeting," she said yawning loudly laying down again.

"In the middle of the night? That's not usually what men text women in the middle of the night," said Mary.

"He's the great detective, you know, and – I don't think he'd ever ask me _or_ anyone about what I'm wearing," said Molly who started to giggle on the thought.

"If he ever asks, please say wedding dress," said Mary, causing both the women to laugh for a very long time.

She hated herself for not being one of those women who had everything imagined – she only knew she wanted it in winter, at a great big house, preferably with a mausoleum, and that was it – she didn't think of what she was going to eat, or the colours of the napkins. That wasn't important, really. Of course she'd been idly doodling her name Molly Jane…though the last time she'd done that, the last name had been one she could legally take.

Mary had laughed for a full five minutes when she informed her of that fact, and she knew that it would probably never stop being amusing for her friend. The only person who took it dead seriously was Michael, and for some time her. Now it was just an assortment of odd things that coexisted with her relationship with Sherlock – that and _black with two sugars._

Luckily since Sherlock was yet again involved, she felt it important that she take the planning seriously, giving herself the week off more or less to plan with him and Mary, of course the fact that neither was at the teashop didn't exactly make her confidence soar. It was just so very typical that both were late, when she'd even brought a notebook, which she felt was a step into the right direction (though she suspected she just wanted a new notebook).

Her phone went off – there could only be one reason as to that – one of them wasn't coming, and so she picked it up automatically frowning, before bringing it to her ear, "Mary?"

"Oh God – you're probably not going to be happy hearing this."

She was quite right at that.

"I'm stuck at work-," Mary added guiltily, before hastily adding why, "Some idiot brought a knife to school, of course, and as I am his teacher I've got to have a discussion with the police, before meeting his parents."

"Oh my god – really?" said Molly gaping.

"So, I don't think I'll make it today - I don't know how long this will go on exactly, but I'm sure they'll blame me for it."

"Why would they do that?"

Mary gave a hollow laugh, "We read through Hamlet, which is in the curriculum of course – has been for how long I don't know, but somehow the boy in question thinks he can say that motivated him."

"Hamlet? Really?" said Molly trying hard not to laugh.

"I'm somehow a bit glad he's been paying attention, as usually they'd say – it's the violence in video games, or that dreadful pop music. No, this time he was passionate about literature," said Mary with a sigh, "I don't know if I should laugh or cry, but I am definitively stuck at work to teach him why that's a stupid idea. He seems at least to know it now, don't you Simon?"

Molly could hear a solemn "Yes, Miss Morstan," crackling in the background.

"You'll be OK, though, I suspect?" said Mary.

"Of course, it's – it's fine."

"Have you spoken to him face to face, since he texted you?"

"No," said Molly biting her lip.

"You'd think that with the case load he's been having lately with John he'd actually pop round Bart's – _yes_ – I am talking about Sherlock Holmes, Simon, and he would frown upon your stupidity," snapped Mary to whoever the poor Simon was, "Gods – I've got to go – his parents are here already, and his dad doesn't look spectacularly happy. I suspect it's his knife, I'm so sorry Molly."

"Don't worry, it's not your fault - just call me later on to tell me how it went?"

"Most likely, but it'll be fine. Simon however won't be that fine-," said Mary, before adding, "Good luck – bye!" and with that Molly ended up staring at her phone for a full minute in contemplative silence.

_Brilliant_, she was now entirely alone with Sherlock.

Not that it wasn't fine of course, since they'd been technically alone together loads of times now, but it just seemed – it had been rather – difficult actually - "Mary not coming then?" said a the deep familiar voice making the hairs on her neck stand up in shock.

He was eyeing the phone in her hand, which she quickly put on the table trying to seem like she wasn't at all nervous in his presence. She _wasn't_ nervous in his presence, what on earth was she even thinking about? Molly did however despair over the fact that he didn't exactly say hello like ordinary people.

"No, she was caught up at work," she said trying to smile, before adding, "_Hello."_

"Ah," he said eyes fixed above her head and to their surroundings.

She was starting to wonder if he was purposely avoiding her eye, that or he was fascinated by the interior design, and a small part of her wondered if there was something dodgy going on in the cafe, but by his uninterested expression – _maybe not._

"Would you like to sit down?" she said staring up at him with pursed lips, but his blue eyes kept still darting above her head.

"I suspect under the circumstances that it is better she not be here," he said obviously not listening.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank for reading! Hah. Sorry. I would like to thank those who always take the time reviewing - you are absolutely lovely, and I'm sorry if I don't answer everyone of you. If it comforts you I spend a great deal writing anyway, still am for that matter, and my beta AussieMaelstrom is currently looking on the next two chapters (poor woman). Have a nice Wednesday (?). Time difference is such a complicated thing, since for some I'm in the future, for others I am in the past. I'll shut up now.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Thank you _AussieMaelstrom _you're a star for being my beta! You are all stars for reviewing, following and just paying attention to this fic at all.

* * *

_OK._

Sherlock wasn't sitting down.

He still wasn't looking at her and he was certainly sounding a bit too serious for her own liking. The fact that he then proceeded to stop talking didn't make her at all feel better, especially since Mary wasn't showing up as a buffer between the pair of them, at least she would have filled the silence, and Molly could certainly pin-point the silence now. Sherlock was just standing before her seeming uneasy, which did not make her look forward to whatever he was going to say. It was most likely not going to be pleasant, but it would be best if he got it over and done with. The silence was unnerving at best, and this was perhaps the point she should defuse the tension by throwing a witty remark his way, or say anything at all, but the only thing she did manage to say with him standing so stoically before her was, "Why?"

Well…it was a completely reasonable question, especially since he was going on about something to begin with.

"Molly-," he started, and she almost assumed he'd be backing away from helping her, leaving her to think on her own, and that was rather nerve-racking – though if he kept on being mute they wouldn't get much done either. He was probably too busy, too important, too wrapped into his own little projects that…

"I have found someone willing to help us."

_Oh._

"To help us?" she said startled out of her reverie, since him admitting he needed help was rather foreign, except in extreme circumstances. She rather hoped this wasn't an extreme situation, but the tally of two hundred people did loom over her head rather ominously.

"Yes," he said, but he didn't seem happy about it, "She has an office fifteen minutes away, so I suggest we take a taxi." He met her eye now, ever so briefly it was, a blur of green and blue into her direction.

"Is she good?" she said barely enthusiastic enough to stand up and hurriedly follow to wherever he would lead them.

It didn't feel right letting someone else worry over her wedding, though technically she was already allowing that to happen, and had been rather relieved when Mary and Sherlock weren't unwilling to help. The fact that Sherlock didn't look entirely confident about the matter himself didn't exactly make her want to bounce out of her seat that very instant. He looked rather – what was the word she was looking for? _Mollified._ Yes.

His eyes were yet again focused above her head, gazing at what she supposed was thin air, as his lips were pressed together forming a thin line, "I would say she has some experience in the matter," he said with a sigh.

That didn't exactly give her much to go on, or the incentive to make a mad dash to whoever this woman was, "OK, but – I thought-,"

"Considering the amount of guests that will be in attendance – approximately two hundred-,"

She groaned loudly at that, "Don't remind me – I blame Michael's parents, and the fact that mum says the people she wants invited are all important. I don't even know half of them, and haven't seen some since I was three-,"

"Then it is perhaps for the best if you let someone who is used to these high numbers – help you - so you don't succumb to the pressure. That is what she's conveyed to me, as it was – _important for the bride not to look harried on her wedding day_," said Sherlock with such distaste that she almost laughed.

"Who told you that number, though?" she asked a bit surprised, feeling even worse when he quickly said, "Michael," in reply. He wasn't supposed to know that bit, not at all.

"Have – have -_ you_ spoken with Michael?" she said tilting her head ever so slightly, as she tried to seem casual.

"Yes," he said with a raised brow meeting her eye with a much steadier gaze, "Of course, that was when I officially was your maid of honour."

She knew he saw her anxiety written clear in her face.

"You gave yourself that job," she said, hoping he'd not point out the obvious fact she was trying to steer away from him – the tiny insignificant detail of her not having told Michael, that was.

"I did – didn't I?" he said with a small smile.

"To everyone's surprise," she said with a laugh that she didn't know whether was nervous or not. Whatever it was she was just glad they were having a conversation at all, which somehow seemed easier. She supposed everything seemed easier now with the actual wedding approaching - even talking to Sherlock.

"Yes, they all seemed rather horrified. Shall we go, then?"

"But I've got-,"

"Mary and me – who have never-," he hesitated before continuing, "We aren't exactly prepared for it." He was going to say married, obviously, and somehow that made her shift awkwardly in her seat. Their _marriage_ hadn't exactly brought a packed church.

"Who is this person?" she said wondering if it was a complete stranger or not.

Sherlock frowned into the air above her head again, "She considers herself rather over-qualified for the job, and her name isn't of any importance." Which obviously meant it was important.

"How_ well_ do you know her?" she said, taking to stare at him sceptically.

He blinked rather furiously at that, "Rather –_ well_ - I'd say."

"Is she-," _an ex._

"No," he said so quickly; that she barely managed to finish the thought.

"Is she _good_?" she said trying to make it seem like she wanted to ask that, not that she didn't want to of course, but with the way he was being she didn't know entirely if she could trust this _friend _of his.

"She certainly believes so," he said drily.

She stared at his stony expression for a minute or so, keeping her hands busy with the cold cuppa in her hands, until she finally stood up, "I'll give it a try."

"Good – she's expecting us," he said turning around, before heading towards the door with Molly hastily keeping up with him as she drew on her coat. He kept the door open for her, his eyes on his phone, as he was obviously texting about their arrival to whoever they were meeting, and she could only hope the woman was in any way helpful.

* * *

It was the fact that John was in his life that made him aware of the certain things one was supposed to pay attention to, when it came to _feelings._ He had certainly confirmed that he had them by now, but he didn't often take heed to others when he was faced with them. A part of him didn't find the detail of Molly not telling Michael particularly significant, while the other part– fully converted by John's insipid constant commentaries - was fully intrigued as to why, but he was trying to keep himself at bay.

He was even trying his best to avoid looking at her in general, which would be easier with Mary present, but at least staring out of the car window catching her reflection was completely coincidental. She looked calm, but her hands kept fidgeting with her bag, often taking up her phone pushing at the buttons to give the impression that she didn't mind the silence. He kept reminding himself that he had been bullied into this, by his older sibling and by his mother, though of course he had done his best to steer it into the appropriate sector (since he could not have his mother go on a wild rampage, for she would certainly do many a silly thing if allowed).

He found his mouth opening at some point, "Why exactly haven't you told Michael?"

Molly had started to cough, quite severely, evidently choking down her surprise, for after a round of clearing her throat, she said with a croaky voice, "No time really – he's been too busy."

"It has been three weeks. I would say that was adequate," he said smirking at her.

She didn't share his amusement though. "You haven't been here for two of them. I thought maybe you didn't want to help anymore, so I might not have – needed to tell him anything."

"Except when I inconveniently show up at the wedding."

"If you aren't still too busy looking for that cat," she said with an innocent expression, her eyes bright, and he suspected rather playful.

She still read John's blog obviously; he found that the corners of his mouth turned upwards, as he tried to stifle his laughter. John had been rather angry that they took such a case, but Sherlock had found it imperative that they find the creature ("Can I just say? That this is the most difficult case we've had all week, and – also – most importantly – the bloody cat looks like Molly's.")

"He is a rather enigmatic creature like Toby," he said less than serious, feeling the tightening in his chest ease at the fact that there was no suppressed anger in her statement, or the fact that it seemed easier to be breathe. He found the reason however - there were no hidden agendas, in his or her mind, and it comforted him in a way to know this was it. This was what they would have, or so he hoped.

"Not if you give him tuna," she said almost in a whisper, and by the look on her face he saw that she was not at ease anymore, most likely wrapped up in the thoughts that had haunted his mind most of the week.

He could only hope that they would manage in some way to salvage what little friendship they had left between themselves, but the silence that once more gripped him fiercely did not help to soothe him into this belief. It didn't exactly help that they were in fact going to meet his mother.

* * *

**A/N:** DUN DUN DUUUUN. Sorry, I had to. It is a weakness of mine really.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** I first let _AussieMaelstrom _beta the first draft of this chapter, only to re-write it a bit, so it's probably riddled with mistakes, but I found myself so terribly impatient to let it be beta-ed. Every fault on this is my own.

* * *

"Thank you," Molly said breaking the silence all of a sudden.

"For what?" he said fully knowing the answer, but he felt at least he could turn his head towards her in mock-surprise.

"The dress, of course. I don't know of many maids of honours who'd do that exactly."

"You've thanked me enough, Molly. Anyway they should," he said turning his face away from hers once more, "I suspect Michael wouldn't be overjoyed to know that particular fact."

"He wanted to pay for my dress himself, actually."

"Did he now?" said Sherlock who's tone conveyed enough of his feelings on the subject and the man, though he tried to keep it as casual as he could.

"I turned him down, though – I wouldn't have let-,"

"You don't like having favours done for you, which is why I bought it without asking."

"That's quite rude, you know – what if I didn't like it?"

"The expression on your face seemed otherwise, of course if I misread the look of pleasure, there is still time to return it."

"Oh no you don't," she said with a grin, her eyes soon fixed on her lap.

"Are you nervous?" he said.

"What – to meet your friend?" she said looking up.

"No – getting _married_."

"Considering it's my second time, I think I'll be fine." she said, and he allowed himself to laugh.

* * *

She had thought the bridal shop was posh, but this was to the point of laughable – a _bridal consultant._ Molly didn't even know there were jobs like these really, or that people could give themselves these sorts of titles, as they entered a glass building riddled with women bustling about.

Sherlock had given himself the consulting detective moniker, so she supposed if_ he_ could – why wasn't it possible for others? Though this seemed like a much more lucrative business, as the women were being followed about by various couples. The men in said couples looked more agitated than the women Molly suspected were brides to be. She was suddenly thrown over by how calm she was regarding the whole thing, which in turn scared her, so she supposed her facial expression for once fit her.

It was less intimidating than the bridal shop, despite the masses of 'bridal consultants' walking about, whether they were sitting behind shiny desks, or talking on phones.

She supposed it had all to do with the fact that the smiles were genuine for once, which was good. Sherlock strode off to the reception, with her in tow, taking in the sight of the alabaster words that popped out of the wall, each letter the height of Sherlock himself – _Bride co._

"Sherlock Holmes," he announced to the woman who had a phone pressed to her ear.

She looked up, "The office with the red door at the end of the hallway – you can't miss it, it's the largest one," the woman said returning rather quickly to her phone call.

Sherlock didn't seem unnerved, while Molly walked slowly behind him, taking the place in unabashedly, for some of the couples she saw entered rooms that certainly looked more like hotel rooms, than any office. They had beige carpets, luscious crème sofas, fresh flowers in painted vases, and landscape paintings – all before a simple glass desk.

She collided into his back gaping at the scenery, hearing him disguising his snort of amusement over her silliness with a clearing of the throat – this was obviously ordinary to him, but she found it unsettling at best. Even more so, when she saw the red door they were stood before. It didn't need the door to be distinguishable; the glass walls spoke volumes by themselves.

One couldn't miss it really, or the bareness of the room. Instead of adorning it with a seating area, or placing anything that made it seem at all cosy it only had a large glass desk, and two white chairs in front of it. Behind the desk itself, a woman with silvery shoulder-length hair was sat looking over some papers, the wall behind her was covered with photographs of what Molly assumed were other brides she'd taken care of.

She recognised many of the faces, for all of those faces were ones that covered any magazine she could find in the office of her dentist. She didn't exactly fit the profile, though Sherlock did not seem irked by this like she was upon opening the red door, only gesturing for her to walk inside.

She did, ever so hesitantly.

"This will only take a minute," said the woman behind the desk waving a manicured hand towards the chairs.

Molly sat down feeling she should have dressed up - rather than down, as she saw the woman's immaculate attire. The older woman was dressed in what seemed to be a wrinkle free white two-piece suit, rather daring for a woman who worked with weddings, as all the others working there were wearing black.

She could only suppose that this woman was their boss, for her expression was certainly relaxed compared to the others who sprang about, and her mouth was riddled with lines, that spoke of a great deal of laughter. At least at that she felt better, perhaps not when the woman tutted loudly, exclaiming some annoyance over her papers, until she finally looked up.

Her blue eyes swept quickly from Sherlock who'd seated himself looking everywhere else but at the woman, before landing on Molly who felt herself physically shrinking in her seat. She was being measured, she could feel that, it felt like the look Sherlock had given her the first time they'd met, and it certainly did not feel the same. There was however something she felt like she was missing, whatever it was – it caused her stomach to lurch quite spectacularly, and she was sure the woman heard it for a smile broke out on her face.

"You must be Molly," she said.

Molly wondered if she should confirm this, but the woman reached for her hand, and Molly shook it briefly in return. Her eyes had gone to Molly's engagement ring, seeming almost to narrow with mild disbelief, "I'm Violet - Molly. It has come to my attention that you might be in need of some help?" Violet's eyes turned to Sherlock briefly, but he seemed more interested in the office space.

Even if his mind was elsewhere he said, "You volunteered," and Molly would have thought it was said confidently, but he seemed to be rather uncomfortable where he was seated.

He almost seemed like he was expecting to be chastised at his remark, and she half-believed he would.

Violet only continued to smile, her eyes solely fixed on her face, "You haven't chosen a venue yet – I suppose – the prices might vary of course, and Sherlock told me that the budget isn't exactly one to boast about – when is it you're getting married again?"

She felt stupid, her hands clinging to her handbag, "December," she said.

Violet didn't look pleased, "That isn't very long to – I would have thought you would have had all planned by then, since November is almost upon us."

_Oh God. _

"I've – it's been a bit difficult, really."

"I see," said Violet her hands folded on top of the desk, as she stared for a long time at Molly, "Well, that's why you have me-," Molly felt a rush of relief at Violet's overwhelming confidence, "If this had been a spring wedding, we might have run into some trouble, of course, but most venues are luckily available during this time. Even if it a rather _rushed_ wedding, I think there won't be any problems at hand, really, do you – Sherlock?"

Sherlock eyes were narrowed staring at Violet's desk; his lips almost didn't seem to move, as he uttered, "No."

Violet seemed pleased at that answer, turning round to Molly, "I am usually not available at such short notice, so you should consider yourself lucky – but I would like to hear about your fiancé? Sherlock has only told me that his name is Michael, I must confess I'm surprised that he is not here with us, and Sherlock is."

"Well – he's rather busy with work."

Violet frowned, "That's a pity," she sighed, "I would have liked to meet him. We like to meet both the bride and the grooms needs, for we cannot overlook the other."

"He doesn't really want anything – he just wants to marry me," said Molly with a tiny smile.

Violet quieted down for a minute, eyes flickering between Sherlock and Molly, "He does sound like a nice young man, letting you have whatever you want, but you must want a fairy-tale wedding, even if just a little?"

"No, I don't want that. I just want a wedding I'll remember, really."

"Something outside the city? Perhaps on the country side?"

"I don't think I can afford that, though."

Violet's eyes turned to Sherlock, "I am sure Sherlock showed you some pictures of a specific venue, did you not?"

He gave no answer.

"He did, but he never gave the price," said Molly answering for him.

"I don't think the price will be any problem," said Violet with a wave of her hands.

"Oh, why not?" said Molly bemused.

"It's my home."

Molly didn't know where to look really, "Your – it's your – house?"

"I wouldn't call it a house exactly, but yes it is indeed mine. Sherlock is aware of that fact, which is most likely why he suggested it to begin with – now I know it is rather irregular, but I am willing to let you borrow it."

"Borrow? But… it's… I can pay," said Molly feeling dizzy with surprise.

"It is a place barely used in all honesty, I spend much more time in the city, than I ever do at home."

Sherlock snorted at that, while Molly tried to protest, "But – I can find another place, it doesn't seem right, to take yours-,"

"It's absolutely fine dear, I'd be delighted to help you really, and I think I have everything I need to know now."

"Wait – that's it?"

"I just needed a good look at you Molly - to know your needs. It's not very tricky, you want something simple, not over-stated, but elegant none the less. My home will fit that mould perfectly, and I have just the thing," said the woman bringing out a massive folder that was so well stocked Molly's eyes became saucers. "In here is everything you need, more or less, and most of it is already ordered - all just within your price limit in fact, thanks to Sherlock here, who was very helpful. If you do wish to do this on your own, that'll be fine, of course – in the end it is your choice."

Molly's eyes were fixed on the folder, "I think – I think I'll need all the help I can get, thank you," she said her words rushing out rather desperate.

"Well, now - you don't need to worry about a thing," said Violet smiling, as Molly felt comforted by the sheer idea that she didn't need to think anymore about the final details concerning her wedding.

* * *

In the boulder of a file were both his and his mother's suggestions - of course the actual staff at the company had assisted them throughout the whole, but most of it had been done with little anxiety from either party. That was if he chose to ignore the onslaught of commentary that his mother poised on every tiny bit of knowledge he revealed about _Miss Hooper. _He finally hoped the stream of questioning would end at this point, choosing to ignore the doubt that was flitting throughout him, despite giving the woman what she'd wanted.

The one thing she had wished for was only to see "the poor girl" who had been his wife for the last six years, and he had barely yielded to that request to begin with. He had proposed this plan, for he knew that it would put an end to any more meetings between them, even if he were worried Molly would spot the similarities. She didn't seem to notice a thing, there were after all only a handful of traits he had from his mother anyway, and only visible to the trained eye.

He knew his mother rather gave it away by asking him to stay behind for a minute to talk, letting Molly walk through the crimson door, until she stood outside the glass walls rocking on her heels.

"Was that really necessary?" he said with his eyes trained on Molly's oblivious face.

His mother crossed her arms, her chin turned upwards, as she revealed the tension he knew had vibrated throughout her that entire time, "This is what you want?" she said keeping her voice pointlessly low.

"Yes," he bit back taking to walk away, as he adopted a cheery smile that did not fool her, "It will be rather good don't you think? After all we-,"

"Sherlock," she said in that reprimanding voice that had made him cower in a younger age, now fully grown he did not shrink, but he did not feel tempted to turn around to face her, "You know how I have often considered you terribly bright? Well, much more than bright of course. Calling you bright would almost be an insult at this point, as you and your brother are both exceptional men."

She drew a shaky breath.

"You are making a rather convincing argument of the opposite at the moment, and I am sure your brother agrees." she said.

"Will that be all?" he said turning around to face her.

His mother gave him a tender smile in return, her eyes glistening slightly, "She's rather lovely…not what I expected, but certainly much better. I just wish I had met her sooner under different circumstances."

Sherlock felt his mouth turn dry.

"I know."

* * *

He didn't want to speak, for he knew what he'd finally say if he spent any more seconds with her, but there he was in a taxi heading to her flat. He knew he was just buying time, even if that time was spent in silence, for she hadn't spoken a word since they'd left that dreadful place.

She'd just been sat biting furiously at her lip, but he did not point it out. The taxi finally took to halt, saving him the agony of doing so, for she stepped out, and he found himself doing the same – pretending it was out of pure courtesy and not selfishness. He held up a hand to the taxi driver asking him to wait, while he slowly followed Molly to the stone steps that lead to her building.

Her expression was unreadable, as she took the first step up, "Thank you – for letting me meet her – she was rather nice, not as scary as I would have thought."

"Not all bridal consultants are terrifying, Molly," feigning amusement, but he was surprised to find her turning to face him on the step.

She looked down on him, it seemed like she was trying hard not to laugh, "I meant your mum," she said, "I don't suppose it's often you meet the mother-in-law of your _first _marriage to help plan your_ second_."

He blinked foolishly, "How – how did you…"

"You look a lot like her," said Molly, "It's a bit difficult not to notice, really."

He should have known.

"Why exactly does she want to help?" she asked.

He avoided snorting at that, his mother hadn't exactly wanted to be of help in this case.

"She wanted to congratulate you for managing to stay married to me for six years," he said smirking.

She looked at him sceptically, "Ok – but it's not really your old home, is it?" she said.

"No, it's your something borrowed," he said unblinkingly.

"What?" she said, "Sherlock-,"

"It's my childhood home, and I wouldn't be a good man of honour if I did not let you have what you want, would I?"

"But-,"

"Just agree Molly-,"

"Ok." she said taking to laugh nervously, though she hesitantly added in a low voice, "There's no evil plan is there?"

"Evil plan?" he said affronted.

"You know, you doing something stupid, or something?"

"I am not famous for being an idiot."

She looked like she disagreed, "No, but I wouldn't put it against you to do something anyway."

"What would _I_ do on your wedding day?" he said rather slowly allowing his eyes to roam around her face, as she started down at him with a curious expression – her brown eyes twinkling.

"I don't know," she said releasing a breath, "No idea really, you've been surprising me so much lately, that I don't know what you would do."

"It'll be fine, Molly. I promise. You won't see me do anything on your wedding day," he said with a brief nod reaching for the door handle of the taxi.

The twinkle in her eye was gone, and his resolve vanished when she said, "What's wrong?"

He froze, it was a scene so very close to his heart now, one that he had replayed so many times in his head, and it seemed that history had the cheek to repeat itself – she saw him.

"It's fine," he said turning around looking at her with a raised brow.

"Don't – don't do that-," she said shaking her head.

He pocketed his hands in his coat, exhaling, "Do what?"

"What's wrong?" she asked again walking down a step, until she was looking up at him, "Tell me…_please_…don't say you're fine, especially when you're not..."

He opened his mouth only to shut it, feeling his body betraying him.

"Ok…" she said taking to once more walk up the steps.

Only when he was faced with her back did he dare breathe the words, "They knew," feeling regret and relief rush over him.

She turned around slowly with her brown eyes wide, as his were unable to leave her petrified face.

"They knew you helped," he repeated.

"What?"

He furrowed his brows, his eyes turned towards the street instead of her face, "Moran. He knew. I am sorry I didn't tell you, but I did what I had to do."

"Was that for my sake, then?" she said, her mouth a thin line, no hint of a smile playing at her lips now.

"I am sorry, Molly…not that it makes any difference."

"Difference about what exactly?"

"Your feelings about me."

She blinked, but didn't interrupt.

"I knew that they would go after you. That they would harm you, and I knew it would be best if I left."

"Like that?" she said cooly.

"I needed you to hate me, or else they would do their best in harming you."

"I wasn't important, Sherlock."

He felt angry at her, "You were - you_ are -_ to me," he said, almost feeling his voice break.

He pressed his mouth together, meeting her eyes unafraid, as he dare voice it, "Don't marry him."

Molly's face was that of anger, of disappointment, of all the hurt he had left her with, "There's something wrong with him, then – like all the others? Who is there nothing wrong with, Sherlock? Since, there'll probably be nobody left at this point, I think. So, do you have any suggestions?" she said with her hands clenched at her sides, "Who's good enough? – After all you're the expert."

"Me."

Her silence was answer enough. She stared down upon him in amazement, in confusion, all of the expressions the opposite of what he hoped. He had hoped she would say something, anything, but she just stared. At the exact moment she opened her mouth, he saw in the corner of his eye – _Michael._

She followed his gaze, looking lost, "Oh."

She did not protest while he went for the door of the taxi speaking in a voice so overtly pleasant that he felt his throat tighten, "You can tell him of my apology, just – I am sure that will ease his mind. I won't attend the wedding for your sake, I know you don't want me there…" There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to explain, but his legs whisked him away, making him tear open the taxi door settling inside, as he spoke the familiar address. The car drove off, he barely dared to look back, almost hoping she would be looking for him, but when he did he only saw her in a fierce embrace with her fiancé.

_Have a nice life, Molly Hooper._

* * *

**A/N: **Guess what her something blue is? I think the answer is obvious there.

This is not the end, no.

But yes, the wedding is upon us.

Thank you as always for reviewing, and just reading. _THANK YOU. _


	19. Chapter 19

"Aren't you going to do anything?"

"No."

"I'm not expecting you to protest at the wedding, but-."

Sherlock gave him a withering look at that.

"You're not going to go either, are you?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"What about yours, then?" said John rather carefully.

He grimaced, "My - _what_?"

"Your wedding – when you married Molly – how was that?"

Sherlock was blinking rapidly, brows furrowing, until he spat out, "Dull," striding towards his bedroom, banging the door shut with such force that John could hear Mrs Hudson cry out in fright in the flat below.

* * *

When something went wrong in Molly's life before, it was regularly Sherlock who was the answer to why, which Mary knew all too well, but lately – he still was – though in a completely different light. Back then, there were loads of evenings where they'd abuse the man fiercely, with Molly becoming more or less drunk, but not to the point of complete - OK – _some_ - but the majority of those evenings were harmless at best. Molly was still able to say stop, however that word didn't seem to be in her vocabulary now, nor was the rest of the English language for that matter…

_Bringg botles of winne - M_

Leaving Molly to fend for herself with Sherlock was obviously not the success Mary had been hoping for, though her absence was definitely not intentional, as she didn't like arguing with anyone's parents about their son's _fictional hero_. The texts kept pouring in however, gradually becoming unreadable, until Mary finally got out of work, though not forgetting to quickly nip into a shop for some wine, which she didn't intend for Molly, but herself. The lack of spelling and grammar made her blatantly aware that Molly might not be in need of anymore alcohol, though she did buy chocolate as a peace-offering. She still hoped it wasn't _that_ bad, however Mary's dinner plans with John fell through the minute Molly slowly opened the door to her flat, half-leaning on the doorknob for support. Mary gawked at her friend who had dark marks underneath her eyes, clearly from smudged out mascara – most likely caused by tears - definitively not good.

Recounting Simon's stupidity would have to be saved for another day. "Are you alright?" she said almost unsure if she should hug her, for Molly was staring at her rather balefully.

Mary knew that after the planning Molly was -, "Weren't you supposed to be with Michael tonight?" she said.

"Ye-s-s-yes," Molly said with a short nod, releasing the doorknob, until she practically fell on her way to the sofa, before promptly sitting down upon it fetching the large glass of red wine on the table.

Half of the contents came spilling out on the carpet, but Molly did not blink or yelp at her own clumsiness. No, she was gulping down her drink while eyeing Mary's paper bag from Marks & Spencer's containing the bottle of white wine (and the chocolate of course).

Whatever this was, it wasn't anything remotely good, and Mary found herself wondering if – "I told him I wasn't feeling… well," said Molly who smacked her lips together loudly, as if words were a foreign concept, before she dried her mouth with the sleeve of her blouse.

Mary gaped for a second, slowly twirling round as she shut the door, "Ok – and why exactly are you _sick_?"

Molly guffawed obnoxiously, her eyes narrowing into the room, until she tried to drink the rest of the contents in her wine glass, which was in fact empty. Mary tried to stifle her laugh; she'd only ever seen her friend properly pissed on very few occasions. Molly was usually the one who remembered every single detail of the evening, and the one usually being grabbed by people telling her how lovely she was for listening. Mary was never patient with that sort of thing, even if she was one of the people who did in fact spew out how lovely her friend was after a few pints of lager.

"Sh-er-sherlock!" Molly said slamming her glass on the coffee table. Mary half expected it to shatter with the force that her friend brought the glass down.

"What's he done then?" asked Mary in her rather patient professor-voice. It was very difficult not to adopt it, when her friend wasn't exactly telling all, or more or less telling all terribly slowly.

She took off her coat, soon pouring herself a glass of wine, before she handed Molly a glass brimming with water, while Molly only sighed loudly.

"He-e kissed me."

"What?" said Mary blinking at her stupidly, quickly seating beside her.

Molly looked offended at the glass of water, but drank it nonetheless, "No – no – not _now_," she said holding a finger up, as she drank the water in rapid force – some of it spilling down her top, "A long_ long_ very long time ago," she said pausing for breath.

"I thought-," she started, but Mary knew it was rather pointless to bring that sort of thing up, when Molly was certainly not up for actual sentences.

Instead she waited patiently for her friend to go on, and go on she did – "He – kissed – me – then he went all bastard."

"Unsurprising," said Mary with a low voice.

"Saying I wanted it, and I was the one to blame," said Molly, of course it was terribly slurred, but Mary managed to understand her meaning anyway, "My fault! It was my fault that it happened – and then off he goes – dead – and I – he – never said sorry – never mentioned it – and then we've been married! _Married!_"

"Right, that bit I got, yes."

"And then – he's – he's – _helpful_," said Molly who looked Mary straight in the eye at this, looking like someone had killed her cat Toby, who was in fact lounging quite peacefully in a chair, absolutely undisturbed by the fact that his owner was having a meltdown, "He's not – supposed – to be – helpful!"

"Ok, I know it's disturbing…right, so?"

"His mum is helping me, his – _mum_."

"What?" said Mary doubtfully, it couldn't be Sherlock's mum helping her out – Molly must have gotten her wires crossed.

"Yes," said Molly who shook her head, then seeing her mistake took to nodding severely, "And – and – he tells me – I should marry him!" At this statement she laughs, rather madly, and rather long, causing Mary to emit a giggle herself at the sheer madness her friend is displaying. This was probably a much better Hamlet than Simon could ever wish to be. "Marry _him_!"

"Really?"

"But – _but_ -," Molly stands up from her seat, uneasy on her feet, until she stumbles towards the stack of bridal magazines that are on a neat pile on the floor, which she then scatters until she finds the biggest glossiest number. Molly returns with it in her hands, flipping through the pages hurriedly, before taking out a rather large brown envelope tucked in the middle showing it to her – "I haven't sent it - yet," she said in a whisper with wide eyes.

Mary's jaw was hanging at that, since Molly had repeatedly told her that she had signed and sent the annulment papers already. That it was under processing, that it had all been done, and could be forgotten… but there the bloody thing was, being cradled in her hand like it could burst into flames any second. In fact it would be better if it did.

Molly released a breath at that, her breath smelling close to a brewery, "I'm sending it now," she said determined.

"You are?" said Mary who felt that this had to be thought through, especially this, especially now, but the look Molly gave her – a lone tear slipping down her cheek was heartbreaking.

"Yes – yes I am," and she nodded her head fiercely at that, "Yes."

"You've been drinking, Molly. Give it till tomorrow at least, think it over – you've obviously not sent it because-,"

"I forgot," she said in a small voice, dripping with conviction, "I thought I had sent it, but I found it while Michael was here…I'm such an idiot…I'm going to send it - I _have_ to send it."

"You're sure?" said Mary after taking a long sip of her wine.

"Yes," said Molly who didn't look at her, her eyes lingering on the envelope, looking guilty, "I am."

Mary soon found herself half-carrying her friend out in the busy streets to get hold of some stamps, until they finally sent the offending material off.

Molly did not listen to her protests of waiting, or the fact that it would better to deliver it by hand. No, her barrister she did not want to see, as it would arrive there in time after all. When Mary finally got her to bed, she could hear Molly softly muttering, "I don't," repeatedly like a prayer, as she tucked her in.

It was one of the moments that Mary found herself sending a silent prayer, while she switched on the telly in Molly's living room. "Let the royal mail be rubbish. It usually is, so don't let me down now," she whispered to herself, despite hoping beyond hope that her friend had made the right decision.

* * *

_The evening before the wedding_

Karen had slipped off her shoes at some point, a piece of sushi dangerously close to her crimson lips, while she mouthed the words on the papers, before her. It had been a long day in the office really, and she was knackered – the fact that she'd only been barely chewing her lunch, which was now her dinner didn't make her any happier – especially as Christmas Eve was soon upon them all. She became even less happy, when her idiotic assistant Stewart came in her office with a brisk knock.

She stared at the posh git with annoyance, "What is it now?" she drawled setting the chopsticks aside.

"Err, sorry Miss Kingston, you remember Miss Hooper?" he said flushing and she glowered in return.

"What about her – I thought that case was closed?" she said, the woman hadn't sent her a letter, so she supposed she was staying married to Sherlock after all.

"Well, that's the thing – her annulment papers have finally gotten in, actually."

"What?" said Karen with a shriek, "Hand them over, oh for fucks sake, Stewart!" He shrunk at that, she hastily added, "I am not going to give you the sack! Relax."

"There was trouble with the mail," he said sprinting towards the desk , and handing her the envelope, though he did not seem less nervous, "Probably the Christmas rush that made it go wrong, since they'd misread the numbers."

"At least we'll make it in time, Stewart – just go home now –," she said huffing loudly, as she carefully slipped out the papers intending to send them off – _high priority_ – after all she could still pull some strings, but when her eyes landed on the papers that she found herself shouting, "Fuck."

Molly Hooper had forgotten to sign.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you _AussieMaelstrom_ for beta!

Now I know most of you will want me to update, as soon as possible. Unfortunately I'm going to London next week, which will make it a wee bit impossible even how much I'd like to. We'll see.

ALSO answer to last chapter; Sherlock's heart was blue.

I'd like to thank you if you're still reading, or have just started to read. Thank you for being interested in this story!

Now the following people have gotten one-shots; 350th was **StrawberryAcapella**, 400th was **Peridoth Eyez** and 450th was **Hallaanduneiel.** Just message me whatever prompt you like, if you like that is.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Thank you to _AussieMaelstrom_ for beta! Especially since I'm in the middle of leaving the flat, like seriously - _right_ now - leaving, and she made it just in time. I won't be returning before the 15th of July - be aware of that, so you'll have to wait a while. Sorry about that! Have a good holiday if you're having one! Thank you for reviewing and favouriting and following.

* * *

The snow had ceased to turn the grounds into the unrecognisable, which finally allowed the workers to their job on the outside - hastily decorating the mausoleum in the freezing cold, as they'd been delaying until the blizzard waned off. It had been snowing most of the morning. She'd wanted snow, she'd gotten buckets of it, but she never expected this much. At least, since it was calming down – most of the guests would actually make it in time, as several had rung them up distressed about the weather. It was the worst winter in fifty years, and it chose to appear in its full form on her wedding day.

_Typical._

Molly sighed as she stepped away from the window overlooking the frozen garden and lake. Perhaps Michael's plans of a spring wedding would have been easier, as it was clear to her that Mrs Holmes mansion wasn't unavailable during that time either, but it was too late to suggest that on her actual wedding day. She could only imagine Michael's face, and it's not like she would pick this place again. She had tried to beg off from Violet, but the woman had not listened to a single one of her protests. Instead Violet had fully separated herself from the wedding, and sent her protégé Eve to take care of the last minute details. It felt wrong, of course she couldn't exactly tell anyone of this fact, especially Michael who would most likely turn deranged knowing it was Sherlock's childhood home. There weren't any obvious clues, not if one hadn't been looking, but she had found _one_ when she'd arrived with the rest of her bridesmaid the night before. They'd been shown to all of their respective rooms, of course, all large, with beautiful old furniture – "We're in a Jane Austen novel," said Mary out of the corner of her mouth, as the butler showed them around.

He was a stuffy old man, but he obviously wasn't deaf, "Well, she is not Lady Catherine de Bourgh," he said in a loud voice.

They all went to bed after that, but Molly hadn't managed to sleep. Instead she wandered throughout the darkened hallways of the house, exploring the place out of natural curiosity, causing her to find a portrait of a young man. She returned to her room quickly, only finding her mind filling up with the image she'd seen, _Sherlock_ – with a familiar smile on his lips.

When she finally managed to fall asleep she found herself woken again by Mary, it was morning, but it still felt like night. She was surprised her alarm clock hadn't woken her, but then she realised that her phone was missing. They looked everywhere, "You must have lost it last night."

There really was no point in worrying about the phone, as several of the bridesmaids had repeated to her over breakfast, "Everyone you know is going to be here today, anyway – it's not like you're expecting a call, are you?"

"Someone at Bart's-," she stopped talking at that, feeling stupid – seeing Mary glance at her, unlike the rest who were laughing over her loyalty to her job. She was the only other person who knew that there was_ one _person who wasn't going to be there. Molly slowly slipped off the robe that covered her wedding dress.

She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror of the bedroom.

Her phone missing wasn't the only thing that went wrong really, as Eve the wedding planner kept coming up with bad tidings.

Molly did not blame her.

It wasn't Eve's fault that Michael's mother was hysterical at best, a right nightmare to be around, or that guests were missing, or that some of the food was arriving late, or the fact that the fresh flowers that were supposed to be put out had frozen over night.

Yes, everything was a right state.

Yet she calmed down at the sight of her dress with its long train, the buttoned-up back, and the lace that covered her perfectly. It helped looking at her dress, knowing it was hers, but it certainly did not help knowing that it wasn't in fact her purchase or that this particular spot belongs to the man who'd bought it.

It wasn't his home anymore according to Mrs Holmes, but he had grown up there. It was far more tranquil than she'd suspected from the regular mess he'd have in his own flat, but then – she wasn't supposed to be thinking about him.

He hadn't even been in the country since he…confessed. He'd been abroad with John trailing after cases in foreign countries, but she knew he was back in London.._._ Molly hadn't allowed herself to think of him properly since, occupying herself with the wedding plans, and allowing herself to delve into her work instead. Even Mary seemed considerate enough not breach the topic of the man; avoiding even mentioning John, which Molly thought was a pity. They should be able to speak about John, at least, and it wasn't as if Sherlock was a sore topic to her. He wasn't a difficult topic, at all, but she could feel herself having difficulty with breathing where she stood.

It wasn't long now; soon she'd be carrying her flowers walking slowly, until she stood face to face with Michael. She was going to be married, but she didn't feel particularly happy. She was nervous, that was it, she thought - it was her nerves and the jumble of the plans that was making her feel so terribly…_empty._

The door to the room opened, "We've still not found your phone, and I'm starting to think you left it in the flat – that isn't a problem, is it?" said Mary in her deep purple bridal gown.

"No," said Molly with a smile, "It'll be fine – Eve's got all the important numbers."

"Yes, the woman's a miracle worker, really," said Mary stepping into the room.

"There're not any more problems, are there?"

"No, actually, it seems that everything's sorting itself out, thanks to Eve that is. I'm glad she's here, so I'm not the only one looking harried."

Molly giggled slightly, "That's – that's good."

"Is it?"

Molly turned round in surprise, "What do you mean?"

"That's the first time I've heard you laugh in weeks," said her friend with her hands clasped before her, "Don't you think-,"

"It's nerves," said Molly exhaling.

"Yes, but that usually involves a person being a bit more – happy."

"I am _happy_. Of cour-," but she didn't get her chance to finish, when the door to the room barred open and her dad ran in.

She felt herself freeze on the spot; for in his hands was a great brown envelope that she recognised instantly, "There's a bit of a problem," he said rather breathlessly.

"I wouldn't call it a _bit _of a problem, Charlie," said her mother who popped up behind him with her arms crossed.

"Muriel, please – could you-," he said hastily shutting the door behind the pair of them, "Molly – you alright?"

Mary had hurried to her side at that point helping her to sit down, "I sent - sent that."

"You did – except – there's this young man downstairs -,"

She blinked – was _he_ here? Her father would mention _him_ by name, wouldn't he?

"You seemed to have forgotten to -," her dad said but instead of finishing what she suddenly felt she already knew he displayed the annulment papers, and showed her the barren dotted line that she thought she'd put her loopy signature on.

"But – but – I – _Mary_-," started Molly.

"You just wanted us to post it," said Mary with both her hands on her shoulders, "I thought you'd already signed it."

"It arrived later, there was apparently something wrong with the address-," her dad continued.

"Oh God," said Molly clapping her hands over her mouth.

"But – he said that if you signed it now, it would be alright, that they'd sort it out, just in time, of course," said her dad chuckling, he was on bended knee in front of her, handing her the papers.

"Oh – really?" she said with a dazed expression.

"Yes, really – if that's what you want of course."

"Why wouldn't I want that?" said Molly who wasn't stupid, as she saw the three of them glancing at each other.

"Let her have some air, Charlie," said her mother slapping her father's arm, making him stand up, "You don't need to ruin _this _wedding too."

"You were using too long in the bathroom," he said to her angrily.

"I was getting ready!"

"You hadn't needed to throw the iron on my face for that."

"I don't think now is the time," said Mary who was trying hard not to laugh interrupting their argument. They looked at her in surprise, though quieted down immediately.

Molly's father handed her the pen silently, before frowning at her mother who only rolled her eyes in return, but they locked hands finally leaving the room.

She stared after them in surprise, "What-,"

"I thought that was quite obvious," said Mary with a nervous laugh, as she released Molly's shoulders, "OK – let's not talk about them right now, I think we've got much larger problems."

Molly groaned rather unladylike, "Did everything have to go wrong today?"

"This is not everything."

"I'm still married!"

Mary opened her mouth, soon shutting it, as she said, "Right, that's a bit problematic on your wedding day-,"

"What if Michael finds out?"

"Michael's not going to find out – if you're not going to tell him, and you have no reason to tell him – or _do_ you?" Mary's blue eyes met hers.

"Could you – just -," said Molly with a wave of her free hand.

"I'll leave you," said Mary heading towards the door, but she turned around, "It's your decision, Molly - don't let anyone else make it for you." She was gone after that, and Molly found herself staring at the papers for a very long time.

Her mother was the one who returned, "So – have you signed, then?" she asked.

* * *

He had been playing on his violin for hours; the music was sweet, forgiving, soft, surprising and everything he had ever seen her as. There in the music he found her, he was conducting, finding the words he did not bear to utter in the swell of the music, with the sharp way he dragged his bow on the steel strings. His hands ached, he ignored the stabs of pain, or the way his body felt heavy, muted, telling himself that it was the travelling that took its toll on him. John had left hours ago, not without his attempts at rousing him into action, but the words he had given were fruitless. It was her happiness that was the price he would not pay, for she was getting married, and he would not stop it for the world. Sherlock became aware of the incessant ringing that poured through the flat, he welcomed the disruption, though with annoyance, "Mrs Hudson!" he cried out, soon recalling that she was – out – at the wedding in fact. He grudgingly brought the land line to his ear, "Sherlock," said the voice of his brother.

"Mycroft," he said with a grimace.

"She has not signed the papers."

"What?"

"You're still married – now – I suspect that-," Sherlock put the phone down, practically banging it on the receiver, as his eyes flickered around the empty flat.

"_If there's even a chance-," said John. _

"_There isn't."_

There _was_, and so Sherlock ran.

* * *

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"But – Molly – it's-,"

"Don't argue with me dad – please – don't –,"

"OK, if you say so love."

Her decision had been made, and there was nothing that was going to make her change it.

* * *

He called for the cabbie to stop, when they'd past the gates; he could run faster at this rate. He slammed the door of the taxi behind him, as he sprinted the familiar path leading to the mansion, "Stay there!" he cried out behind him, causing the taxi to halt.

He barely glanced at the frozen exterior of the mansion, while he skidded on the patches of ice on the ground that wasn't covered by gravel. Sherlock's breath grew ragged by the sheer speed his legs were bringing him forward. Here he was – forgetting all possible sense, all that selflessness he had promised to have, as he finally found the mausoleum rather breathlessly, the cold air nipping at his lungs.

He stopped in his tracks – it was empty – there was no one there.

His eyes narrowed at the sight, there was rice, there were snow-covered garlands with barely twinkling lights – there were stains of wine on the ground, and he drew for breath.

The only person present besides himself was an old man who was clearing off the bits and pieces on the ground, the rest of the clutter that was left behind. He could hear the music, the laughter, as the rush of blood stopped pounding his ears. The sounds were coming quite obviously from the house, but he chose to ignore it – he wished to ignore it, "Is it over?" he said in rapid speech.

The man looked up in surprise, "Oh – hello – sorry? Do you mean the ceremony?"

"Yes," he said with his chest heaving, and his blue eyes flickering towards the house that was well light, where he could see the people inside passing the large windows. He was clinging to hope like a fool – all the evidence was before him, but for once he liked to think he had been tricked.

The man stopped with his work, "That was a while ago – the blizzard kept you, then? Some of the guests weren't here, but they didn't waste time – the bride was ready to be married, apparently-,"

He didn't let the man finish, as he strode off across the grounds feeling his mouth turn dry. He was back at the start with the taxi, the cabbie stared at him in surprise, "You alone, sir?" he asked.

He seated himself in the back, briefly shutting his eyes, "Yes."

In the distance he heard his name called out, a quick glance behind him told him it was John, but he ignored him, "Go."

When the distance between him and the house was large enough, he finally let his unreadable features soften, and he pressed his lips together, his hand trembling ever so slightly - he was a fool…and she was married.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** THANK you to _AussieMaelstrom _for beta, and for you who read - review - and just follow this story.

* * *

They were a blur of white intermingled with black, twirling about on the dance floor with such energy –_ the bride and the groom _- with the broadest smiles known to any. No one could deny that they were the happiest pairing, despite some of the guests chagrin, though it was easily forgotten, for no one could ever believe they'd seen a bride so delighted. No one could deny that Molly had truly made the right decision in the end; that was a fact not even Mary could disagree with as she clapped along to the music feeling properly at ease for once.

* * *

Winter had finally breached the city; there he stood hovering over it all, almost impressive with his dark coat like a contrast to the white sheet that covered the rooftop. Below him, upon the pavement he saw people chattering, complaining, as they huddled underneath umbrellas, or in their thick coats shielding themselves from the heavy torrent of snow that had overtaken the city. London was white tonight, though he was certain the thick white blanket that covered the city would dissipate, as he saw the grey clouds overhead. Sherlock drew up the collar of his coat, despite how very little it helped with the shower of snow that was in his dark hair, though he was glad he felt the cold. He had found himself visiting one of the most unlikely places anyone could find him – the roof of St Bart's – the place he felt was the beginning to the end. It soothed him standing there, subduing the brutal torrents that raged inside of him, that kept battling in his mind, almost forcing him to act, though there was nothing else he could do.

He would permit it tonight; he would allow himself to_ feel_ it to his very heart, just one night, until he finally closed the door on the subject matter entirely. Here, upon this roof he would finally whisper the words he could not at her wedding, though they caught up in his throat, since he could not truly let himself wallow in it. There was no point, when she was happy, since it was his own errors that had created this path for her to begin with - all the red lines connected to him, as it was blatantly obvious that he had conjured his own destruction, unwittingly he had destroyed any chance for them to have existed, from day one. He had stepped aside long before he had left her in the rain, or torn her present to him apart, or remarked on her lipstick – it was he who was the biggest fool, and he _would_ feel it. Sherlock would allow the questions to be asked, not knowing if he would have the strength to answer those from his friend, from his brother, or from his mother, since he would not know what answers to give them. There were other options before him, such as leaving, but he had already done that once. Leaving had never helped, for everything would be put on pause for him, but for everyone else – they would move on.

No, there would be none of that now.

He took a deep steadying breath of the icy air from where he stood at the edge, feeling no need for a cigarette, or a solution, as the air was purer than anything else, crawling deeper in him than any cigarette could. In the end, there was only one thing that truly mattered, there was only one thing that truly counted, and it made it all bearable somehow, knowing that – she was happy.

He stepped away from the edge, aware of the fact that she was not Molly Hooper anymore, so he finally walked away from where it all began, leaving the roof empty once more, the snow covering up his tracks, as if he'd never been there at all.

* * *

He knew that turning off his phone would generate concern, though he was not tempted to reawaken the contraption, for the reminders of the event were still too fresh. He knew that already now John was perched upstairs in his chair, hand tucked underneath his chin waiting for him, in the living room where the only source of light was the fireplace. It was in all intents and purposes _danger night_, a concept that for once seemed lost on his big brother who had not been following his every step, as no car had been bothering him for once. There would perhaps be no brotherly talk for the night- there was some respite in that, some hope that his brother would allow him to feel it, if only for one evening, without any intervention.

He knew what was expected of him, and he would not do it, he would not allow it, since he was fine, because _she_ was. The door was unlocked, occupants in already, despite the dim light, and he stomped his shoes briefly on the doormat, clearing the remnants of snow on his shoes. Sherlock stopped all of a sudden, his blue eyes aware of the darkness of the hallway, and Mrs Hudson's locked door. She had not come home yet; a surprising fact, and he slowly shut the door behind him with a soft thump, before peering at the rest of the hallway curiously. There were no coats; there were no remnants of snow either but the one he had left – only dry territory.

It made him wary, especially the silence that came from upstairs, and he looked upwards – hearing the creaking of the floors, then the sound of the kettle being turned on. He had half-expected to hear John shout some abuse at him, though perhaps he was being cautious, but he would have expected John to offer stronger stuff under such occasions. Sherlock started to walk, still in his coat up the steps, taking no time in rushing, as he felt the occupant still at every creak he made in the woodwork. He furrowed his brows slightly, taking to sprint up the rest of the steps, barring the door open with his gloved hands, intending to scare whoever was in the flat away, if it wasn't John, only to freeze entirely, his hand stuck at the doorknob. For there, with her back turned to him – settling down two cups on the table – one of which collided with a clatter on the saucer, was _Molly_, who slowly straightened her back clearing her voice a little, as she said, "Hello."


End file.
